UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LO5     ^^    AHGELE5 


NOT  TO  BE  TAKEN  FROM  THE  ROOM 


SELECTIONS 


THE  POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


ROBERT   BROWNING. 


FROM  THE  SIXTH  LONDON  EDITION. 
(FIRST  AND  SECOND  SERIES.) 


NEW  YORK: 
THOMAS    Y.    CROWELL    &    CO., 


COPYRIGHT,  1886, 
3v   THOMAS   V.  CROWELL  &   CO. 


PRESS  OF  BERWICK  &  SMITH, 
BOSTON,  MASS. 


DEDICATED    TO 

ALFRED    TENNYSON. 

IN  POETRY  —  ILLUSTRIOUS   AND   CONSUMMATE; 
IN  FRIENDSHIP  — NOBLE  AND  SINCERE. 


TN  the  present  selection  from  ray  poetry,  there  is  an  attempt  to  escape 
from  the  embarrassment  of  appearing  to  pronounce  upon  what  myself 
may  consider  the  best  of  it.  I  adopt  another  principle;  an<I  by  simply 
stringing  together  certain  pieces  on  the  thread  of  an  imaginary  personal- 
ity, I  present  them  in  succession,  rather  as  the  natural  development  of  a 
particular  expedience  than  because  I  account  them  the  most  noteworthy 
portion  of  my  work.  Such  an  attempt  was  made  in  the  volume  of  selec- 
tions from  the  poetry  of  Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning;  to  which  —  in 
outward  uniformity  at  least  —  my  own  would  venture  to  become  a 
companion. 

A  few  years  ago,  had  such  an  opportunity  presented  itself,  I  might 
have  been  tempted  to  say  a  word  in  reply  to  the  objections  TUJ  poetry  was 
used  to  encounter.  Time  has  kindly  co-operated  with  my  disinclination 
to  write  the  poetry  and  the  criticism  besides.  The  readers  I  am  at  last 
privileged  to  expect,  meet  me  fully  half-way;  and  if,  from  the  fitting 
stand-point,  they  must  still  "censure  me  in  their  wisdom,"  they  have 
previously  "awakened  their  senses  that  they  may  the  better  judge." 
Nor  do  I  apprehend  any  more  charges  of  being  wilfully  obscure,  uncon- 
scientiously  careless,  or  perversely  harsh.  Having  hitherto  done  my 
utmost  in  the  art  to  which  my  life  is  a  devotion,  I  cannot  engage  to 
increase  the  effort;  but  I  conceive  that  there  may  be  helpful  light,  as  well 
as  re-assuring  warmth,  in  the  attention  and  sympathy  I  gratefully 

acknowledge. 

E.  B. 
LONDON,  May  14,  1872.  . 

iii 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

MY  STAB  , 1 

A  FACE ,  .  .-  .  1 

MY  LAST  DUCHESS 1 

SONG  FROM  "  PIPPA  PASSES  "  .  ,  .  .  2 

CRISTINA 3 

COUNT  GISMOND .  4 

EUBYDICE  TO  ORPHEUS 5 

THE  GLOVE 6 

SONG .  8 

A  SERENADE  AT  THE  VILLA  ....  9 

YOUTH  AND  ART 9 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  THE  DUCHESS  ...  11 

SONG  FROM  "  PIPPA  PASSES"  ....  24 
"  HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE  GOOD 

NEWS  FROM  GHENT  TO  Aix"  .  .  24 

SONG  FROM  "  PARACELSUS  "  ....  25 
THROUGH  THE  METIDJA  TO  ABD-EL- 

KADR 26 

INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP  .  .  26 

THE  LOST  LEADER 27 

IN  A  GONDOLA 27 

A  LOVERS'  QUARREL 30 

EARTH'S  IMMORTALITIES 32 

THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHEK  ....  33 

MESMERISM 34 

BY  THE  FIRESIDE 36 

ANY  WIFE  TO  ANY  HUSBAND  ....  40 

IN  A  YEAR 43 

SONG  FROM  "  JAMES  LEE  " 44 

A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD 44 

MEETING  AT  NIGHT 45 

PARTING  AT  MORNING 45 

WOMEN  AND  ROSES 45 

MISCONCEPTIONS 46 

A  PRETTY  WOMAN 46 

A  LIGHT  WOMAN 47 

LOVE  IN  A  LIFE 4s 

LIFE  IN  A  LOVE 49 


PAGE 

THE  LABORATORY 49 

GOLD  HAIR 50 

THE  STATUE  AND  THE  BUST  ....  53 

LOVE  AMONG  THE  RUINS 57 

TIME'S  REVENGES 58 

WARING 59 

HOME  THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD  .  .  62 

THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND 62 

THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY  ....  64 
UP  AT  A  VILLA  —  DOWN  IN  THE  CITY,  67 

PICTOR  IGNOTUS 68 

FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI 70 

ANDREA  DEL  SARTO 76 

THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS  TOMB  AT 

SAINT  PRAXED'S  CHURCH  ....  80 

A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S 82 

HOW  IT  STRIKES  A  CONTEMPORARY  .  84 

PROTUS 86 

MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE-GOTHA  .  .  87 

ABT  VOGLER 89 

Two  IN  THE  CAMPAGNA 92 

"  DE  GUSTIBUS  —  " 92 

THE  GUARDIAN-ANGEL 93 

EVELYN  HOPE 94 

MEMORABILIA 95 

APPARENT  FAILURE 95 

PROSPICE 96 

"  CHILDE  ROLAND  TO  THE  DARK  TOWER 

CAME  " 97 

A  GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL  ....  101 

CLEON 103 

INSTANS  TYRANNUS 108 

AN  EPISTLE 109 

CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOB 114 

SAUL 119 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA  ........  126 

EPILOGUE 129 

A  WALL  ......  .181 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

APPARITIONS 131 

NATURAL  MAGIC 132 

MAGICAL  NATURE 132 

GARDEN  FANCIES,  1 132 

GARDEN  FANCIES,  II 133 

IN  THREE  DAYS 134 

THE  LOST  MISTRESS 135 

ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE 135 

RUDEL  TO  THE  LiADY  OF  TRIPOLI  .    .  135 

NUMPHOLEPTOS    .    , 136 

APPEARANCES 139 

THE  WORST  OP  IT 139 

Too  LATE 141 

BIFURCATION 144 

A  LIKENESS 144 

MAY  AND  DEATH 145 

A  FORGIVENESS 146 

CENCIAJA 152 

PORPHYRIA'S  LOVER 157 

FILIPPO   BALDINUCCI   ON  THE   PRIVI- 
LEGE OF  BURIAL 158 

SOLILOQUY  OF  THE  SPANISH  CLOISTER,  164 

THE  HERETIC'S  TRAGEDY 165 

HOLY-CROSS  DAY 167 

AMPHIBIAN 169 

ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER 171 

JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE 172 

RESPECTABILITY 178 


PAGE 

Dis  ALITER  VISUM 179 

CONFESSIONS 181 

THE  HOUSEHOLDER 182 

TRAY 183 

CAVALIER  TUNES,  1 183 

CAVALIER  TUNES,  II 184 

CAVALIER  TUNES,  in 184 

BEFORE    185 

AFTER 185 

HERVE  KIEL 186 

IN  A  BALCONY 188 

OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE  ....  205 
BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY  .  .  .  210 
MR.  SLUDGE,  "  THE  MEDIUM  "...  228 

THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGEL 256 

A  DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT 257 

FEARS  AND  SCRUPLES 268 

ARTEMIS  PROLOGIZES 269 

PHEIDIPPIDES 271 

THE  PATRIOT 274 

POPULARITY 274 

PlSGAH-SlGHTS.      1 275 

PlSGAH-SlGHTS.      2 276 

PlSGAH-SlGHTS.      3 276 

AT  THE  "  MERMAID  " 277 

HOUSE 278 

SHOP 279 

A  TALE 28; 


A  Face.  —  Page  i. 


MY   STAR. 

ALL  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue  ; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 
My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the 

blue  ! 
Then    it    stops  like  a  bird  ;    like  a 

flower,  hangs  furled  : 
They  must  solace  themselves  with 

the  Saturn  above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a 

world  ? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me  ; 
therefore  I  love  it. 


A   FACE. 

IF  one  could  have  that  little  head  of 

hers 
Painted  upon  a  background  of  pale 

gold, 

Such  as  the  Tuscan's  early  art  prefers  ! 
No  shade  encroaching  on  the  match- 
less mould 
Of  those  two  lips,  which  should  be 

opening  soft 
In  the  pure  profile  ;  not  as  when  she 

laughs, 
For  that  spoils  all :  but  rather  as  if 

aloft 
Yon  hyacinth,  she  loves  so,  leaned  its 

staff's 
Burthen   of   honey-colored   buds,   to 

kiss 
And  capture  'twixt  the  lips  apart  for 

this. 


Then  her   lithe  neck,  three    fingers 

might  surround. 
How  it  should  waver,  on  the  pale  gold 

ground, 
Up  to  the  fruit-shaped,  perfect  chin  it 

lifts  ! 
I  know,  Correggio  loves  to  mass,  in 

rifts 

Of  heaven,  his  angel  faces,  orb  on  orb 
Breaking  its  outline,  burning  shades 

absorb : 
But  these  are  only  massed  there,  I 

should  think, 

Waiting  to  see  some  wonder  momently 
Grow  out,  stand  full,  fade  slow  against 

the  sky 
(That's  the  pale  ground  you'd  see  this 

sweet  face  by), 
All    heaven,  meanwhile,    condensed 

into  one  eye 
Which    fears    to    lose    the    wonder, 

should  it  wink. 


MY  LAST  DUCHESS. 

FERRARA. 

THAT'S  my  last  Duchess  painted  on 

the  wall, 

Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.    I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now  :  Fra  Pan- 

dolf's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she 

stands. 
Will't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her  ? 

I  said 
"  Fra  Pandolf  "  by  design  :  for  never 

read 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  coun- 
tenance, 
The  denth  and  passion  of  its  earnest 

glance, 

1 


SONG  FROM  "PfPPA  PASSES.1 


But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none 

puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you, 

but  I), 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  me,  if 

they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there  ;  so, 

not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.    Sir, 

'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called 

that  spot 

Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek  :  per- 
haps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say,   "  Her 

mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,"  or 

"  Paint 

Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat ; " 

such  stuff 
"Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause 

enough 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.    She 

had 
A   heart  —  how    shall    I    say  ?  —  too 

soon  made  glad, 
Too  easily  impressed  :  she  liked  what- 

e'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went 

everywhere. 
Sir,  'twas  all  one !    My  favor  at  her 

breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the 

West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious 

fool 
Broke  in  the    orchard  for   her,  the 

white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace,  —  all 

and  each 

Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  ap- 
proving speech, 
Or  blush,  at  least.    She  thanked  men, 

—  good  !  but  thanked 
Somehow  —  I  know  not  how  —  as  if 

she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old 

name 
With  anybody's  gift.    Who'd  stoop  to 

blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?    Even  had  you 

skill 
In  speech  —  (which  I  have  not)  —  to 

make  your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say, 

"  Just  this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me  ;  here  you 

miss, 


Or  there  exceed  the  mark  "  —  and 
if  she  let 

Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly 
set 

Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made 
excuse, 

—  E'en  then  would  be  some  stooping  ; 
and  I  choose 

Never  to  stoop.  O  sir !  she  smiled, 
no  doubt, 

Whene'er  I  passed  her ;  but  who 
passed  without 

Much  the  same  smile  ?  This  grew  ;  I 
gave  commands  ; 

Then  all  smiles  stopped  together. 
There  she  stands 

As  if  alive.  Will't  please  you  rise  ? 
We'll  meet 

The  company  below,  then.    I  repeat, 

The  Count  your  master's  known 
munificence 

Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pre- 
tence 

Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disal- 
lowed ; 

Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I 
avowed 

At  starting,  is  my  object.    Nay,  we'll 


er  down,  sir.    Notice  Neptune, 

though, 

Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 
Which  Glaus  of   Innsbruck  cast   in 

bronze  for  me! 


SONG  FROM  "  PIPPA  PASSES.' 


i. 
GIVE  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love 

me! 

When  —  where  — 
How  —  can   this    arm   establish   her 

above  me, 
If   fortune   fixed  her  as  my  lady 

there, 
There  already,  to  eternally  reprove 

me? 

("  Hist !  "  said  Kate  the  queen; 
But  "  Oh,"  cried  the  maiden,  binding 

her  tresses, 

"  'Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  un- 
seen, 

Crumbling      your       hounds      their 
messes! ") 


L'ltJSTINA. 


Is  she  wronged?  —    To  the  rescue  of 

her  honor, 
My  heart! 

Is  she  poor? —    What  costs  it  to  be- 
come a  donor  ? 
Merely  an  earth  to  cleave,  a  sea  to 

part. 
But  that  fortune  should  have  thrust 

all  this  upon  her  ! 

("  Nay,  list !  "  bade  Kate  the  queen; 
And  still  cried  the  maiden,  binding 

her  tresses, 

"  'Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  un- 
seen, 
Fitting  your  hawks  their  jesses!  ") 


CRISTINA. 


SHE  should  never  have  looked  at  me 

if  she  meant  I  should  not  love 

her! 
There  are  plenty  .  .  .  men,  you  call 

such,  I  suppose  .  .  .  she   may 

discover 
All  her  soul  to,  if  she  pleases,  and  yet 

leave  much  as  she  found  them : 
But  I'm  not  so:  and  she  knew  it  when 

she  fixed  me,  glancing  round 

them. 

ii. 

What  ?  To  fix  me  thus  meant  noth- 
ing ?  But  I  can't  tell  (there's 

my  weakness) 
What  her  look  said  !  —  no  vile  cant, 

sure,  about  "  need  to  strew  the 

bleakness 
Of  some  lone  shore  with  its  pearl-seed, 

that  the  sea  feels  "  —  no  "  strange 

yearning 
That  such  souls  have,  most  to  lavish 

where  there's  chance  of   least 

returning." 

in. 

Oh !  we're  sunk  enough  here,  God 
knows  !  but  not  quite  so  sunk 
that  moments, 

Sure  though  seldom,  are  denied  us, 
when  the  spirit's  true  endow- 
ments 

Stand  out  plainly  from  its  false  ones, 
and  apprise  it  if  pursuing 

Or  the  right  way  or  the  wrong  way, 
to  its  triumph  or  undoing. 


There  are  flashes  struck  from  mid- 
nights, there  are  tire-flames 
noondays  kindle, 

Whereby  piled-up  honors  perish, 
whereby  swollen  ambitions 
dwindle; 

While  just  this  or  that  poor  impulse, 
which  for  once  had  play  unsti- 
fled, 

Seems  the  sole  work  of  a  lifetime 
that  away  the  rest  have  trifled. 


Doubt  you  if,  in  some  such  moment, 

as  she  fixed  me,  she  felt  clearly, 
Ages  past  the  soul  existed,  here  an 

age  'tis  resting  merely, 
And  hence  fleets  again  for  ages ;  while 

the  true  end,  sole  and  single, 
It  stops  here  for  is,  this  love  way, 

with  some  other  soul  to  mingle  ? 


Else  it  loses  what  it  lived  for,  and 

eternally  must  lose  it; 
Better    ends    may    be    in    prospect, 

deeper  blisses  (if  you  choose  it), 
But  this  life's  end  and  this  love-bliss 

have  been  lost  here.    Doubt  you 

whether 
This  she  felt  as,  looking  at  me,  mine 

and  her  souls  rushed  together  ? 


Oh,  observe!  Of  course,  next  moment, 
the  world's  honors,  in  derision, 

Trampled  out  the  light  forever. 
Never  fear  but  there's  provision 

Of  the  Devil's  to  quench  knowledge, 
lest  we  walk  the  earth  in  rap- 
ture! 

— Making  those  who  catch  God's  se- 
cret, just  so  much  more  prize 
their  capture! 


Such  am  I:  the  secret's  mine  now! 

She  has  lost  me,  I  have  gained 

her; 
Her  soul's  mine:    and   thus,   grown 

perfect,  I  shall   pass  my  life's 

remainder. 
Life  will  just  hold  out  the  proving  both 

our  powers,  alone  and  blended; 
And   then,  come   next  life  quickly! 

This    world's    use    will    have 

been  ended. 


COUNT   GISMOND. 


COUNT   GISMOND. 

AIX  IN   PROVENCE. 

I. 
CHRIST  God  who  savest  man,  save 

most 
Of  men  Count  Gismond  who  saved 

me! 
Count  Gauthier,  when  he  chose  his 

post, 

Chose  time  and  place  and  company 
To  suit  it:  when  lie  struck  at  length 
My  honor,  'twas  with  all  his  strength. 


And  doubtlessly,  ere  he  could  draw 
All  points   to  one,  he  must  have 
schemed! 

That  miserable  morning  saw 
Few  half  so  happy  as  I  seemed, 

While  being  dressed  in  queen's  array 

To  give  our  tourney  prize  away. 


I  thought  they  loved  me,  did  me  grace 
To    please    themselves:    'twas    all 

their  deed. 

God  makes,  or  fair  or  foul,  our  face: 
If  showing  mine  so  caused  to  bleed 
My  cousins'  hearts,  they  should  have 

dropped 

A  word,  and  straight  the  play  had 
stopped. 

IV. 

They,   too,    so   beauteous!     Each   a 
queen 

By  virtue  of  her  brow  and  breast; 
Not  needing  to  be  crowned,  I  mean, 

As  I  do.    E'en  when  I  was  dressed, 
Had  either  of  them  spoke,  instead 
Of  glancing  sideways  with  still  head! 


But  no:  they  let  me  laugh,  and  sing 
My  birthday  song  quite   through, 
adjust 

The  last  rose  in  my  garland,  fling 
A  last  look  on  the  mirror,  trust 

My  arms  to  each  an  arm  of  theirs, 

And  so  descend  the  castle-stairs  — 


And  come  out  on  the  morning  troop 
Of  merry  friends  who  kissed  my 
cheek, 


And  called  me  queen,  and  made  me 

stoop 

Under  the  canopy  —  (a  streak 
That  pierced  it,  of  the  outside  sun, 
Powdered  with  gold  its  gloom's  soft 

dun)  — 


And  they  could  let  me  take  my  state 
And  foolish  throne  amid  applause 

Of  all  come  there  to  celebrate 
My  queen's-day  —  Oh,  I  think  the 
cause 

Of  much  was,  they  forgot  no  crowd 

Makes  up  for  parents  in  their  shroud! 


However  that  be,  all  eyes  were  bent 

Upon  me,  when  my  cousins  cast 
Theirs   down;    'twas   time   I   should 

present 
The  victor's  crown,  but  .  .  .  there, 

'twill  last 

No  long  time  .  .  .  the  old  mist  again 
Blinds  me  as  then  it  did.    How  vain! 


See!  Gismond's  at  the  gate,  in  talk 

With  his  two  boys:  I  can  proceed. 
Well,  at  that  moment,  who  should 

stalk 

Forth  boldly —  to  my  face,  indeed  — 
But    Gauthier?    and    he    thundered 

"  Stay! " 

And  all  staid.    "  Bring  no  crowns,  I 
say! 


"  Bring  torches!    Wind  the  penance- 
sheet 

About  her!   Let  her  shun  the  chaste, 
Or  lay  herself  before  their  feet! 

Shall  she,  whose  body  I  embraced 
A  night  long,  queen  it  in  the  day  ? 
For  honor's  sake  no  crowns,  I  say!  " 


I  ?    What  I  answered  ?    As  I  live, 

I  never  fancied  such  a  thing 
As  answer  possible  to  give. 
What   says   the   body  when   they 

spring 
Some      monstrous      torture-engine's 

whole 

Strength  on  it?    No  more  says  the 
soul. 


EURYDICE   TO   ORPHEUS. 


Till  out  strode  Gismond :  then  I  knew 
That  I  was  saved.    I  never  met 

His  face  before;  but,  at  first  view, 
I  felt  quite  sure  that  God  had  set 

Himself  to  Satan:  who  would  spend 

A  minute's  mistrust  on  the  end  ? 

XIII. 

He  strode  to  Gauthier,  in  his  throat 
Gave  him  the  lie,  then  struck  his 
mouth 

With    one    back-handed   blow   that 

wrote 

In  blood  men's  verdict  then.  North, 
South, 

East,  West,  I  looked.    The  lie  was 
dead 

And  damned,  and  truth  stood  up  in- 
stead. 

XIV. 

This  glads  me  most,  that  I  enjoyed 
The  heart  o'  the  joy,  with  my  con- 
tent 

In  watching  Gismond  unalloyed 
By  any  doubt  of  the  event; 

God  took  that  on  him  —  I  was  bid 

Watch  Gismond  for  my  part:  I  did. 


Did  I  not  watch  him  while  he  let 
His  armorer  just  brace  his  greaves, 

Rivet  his  hauberk,  on  the  fret 
The  while!    His  foot  .  .  .  my  mem- 
ory leaves 

No  least  stamp  out,  nor  how  anon 

He  pulled  his  ringing  gauntlets  on. 


And  e'en  before  the  trumpet's  sound 
Was  finished,  prone  lay  the  false 

knight, 

Prone  as  his  lie,  upon  the  ground: 
Gismond    flew   at   him,    used    no 

sleight 
O'    the    sword,    but    open-breasted 

drove, 
Cleaving  till  out  the  truth  he  clove. 


Which  done,  he  dragged  him  to  my 

feet, 
And  said,  "Here  die,  but  end  thy 

breath 

In  full  confession,  lest  thou  fleet 
From   my   first    to   God's   second 
death ! 


Say,  hast  thou  lied  ?  "    And,  "  I  have 

lied 
To  God  and  her,"  he  said,  and  died. 


Then  Gismond,  kneeling  to  me,  asked 
—  What  safe  my  heart  holds,  though 
no  word 

Could  I  repeat  now,  if  I  tasked 
My  powers  forever,  to  a  third, 

Dear  even  as  you  are.    Pass  the  rest 

Until  I  sank  upon  his  breast. 


Over  my  head  his  arm  he  flung 
Against  the  world;    and   scarce  I 

felt 
His  sword  (that  dripped  by  me  and 

swung) 

A  little  shifted  in  its  belt, 
For  he  began  to  say  the  while 
How  South  our  home  lay  many  a 
mile. 


So  'mid  the  shouting  multitude 

We  two  walked  forth  to  never  more 
Return.    My  cousins  have  pursued 

Their  life,  untroubled  as  before 
I  vexed  them.    Gauthier's  dwelling- 
place 

God    lighten!      May   his    soul    find 
grace  ! 


Our  elder  boy  has  got  the  clear 
Great  brow ;  though  when  his  broth- 
er's black 
Full  eye  shows  scorn,  it  .  .  .  Gismond 

here  ? 
And  have  you  brought  my  tercel 

back  ? 

I  was  just  telling  Adela 
How  many  birds  it  struck  since  May. 


EURYDTCE  TO   ORPHEUS. 

A  PICTURE  BY  FREDERICK  LEIGH- 
TON,  R.A. 

BUT  give  them  me,  the  mouth,  the 

eyes,  the  brow ! 
Let  them  once  more  absorb  me  !   One 

look  now 


6 


THE    GLOVE. 


Will  lap  me  round  forever,  not  to 

pass 
Out  of  its  light,  though  darkness  lie 

beyond: 
Hold  me  but  safe  again  within  the 

bond 
Of   one  immortal  look !    All  woe 

that  was, 
Forgotten,  and  all  terror  that  may 

be, 
Defied,  — no  past  is  mine,  no  future: 

look  at  me  ! 


THE  GLOVE. 

(PETER  RONSARD  loquitur.) 

"HEIGHO."  yawned   one   day  King 

Francis, 

"  Distance  all  value  enhances  ! 
"When  a  man's  busy,  why,  leisure 
Strikes  him  as  wonderful  pleasure: 
'Faith,  and  at  leisure  once  is  he  ? 
Straightway  he  wants  to  be  busy. 
Here  we've  got  peace;    and  aghast 

I'm 

Caught  thinking  war  the  true  pas- 
time. 

Is  there  a  reason  in  metre  ? 
Give  us  your  speech,  master  Peter  !  " 
I  who,  if  mortal  dare  say  so, 
Ne'er  am  at  loss  with  my  Naso, 
"  Sire,"  I  replied,  "joys  prove  cloud- 
lets: 

Men  are  the  merest  Ixions  "  — 
Here  the  King  whistled  aloud,  "  Let's 
.  .  .  Heigho  ...  go    look    at    our 

lions !  " 

Such  are  the  sorrowful  chances 
If  you  talk  fine  to  King  Francis. 

And  so,  to  the  court-yard  proceeding, 
Our  company,  Francis  was  leading, 
Increased  by  new  followers  tenfold 
Before  he  arrived  at  the  penfold ; 
Lords,  ladies,  like  clouds  which  be- 
dizen 

At  sunset  the  western  horizon. 
And  Sir  de  Lorge  pressed  'mid  the 

foremost 
"With  the  dame  he  professed  to  adore 

most  — 

Oh,  what  a  face  !    One  by  fits  eyed 
Her,  and  the  horrible  pitside; 


For  the  penfold  surrounded  a  hollow 

Which  led  where  the  eye  scarce  dared 
follow, 

And  shelved  to  the  chamber  secluded 

Where  Bluebeard,  the  great  lion, 
brooded. 

The  king  hailed  his  keeper,  an  Arab 

As  glossy  and  black  as  a  scarab, 

And  bade  him  make  sport,  and  at 
once  stir 

Up  and  out  of  his  den  the  old  mon- 
ster. 

They  opened  a  hole  in  the  wire- 
work 

Across  it,  and  dropped  there  a  fire- 
work, 

And  fled:  one's  heart's  beating  re- 
doubled ; 

A  pause,  while  the  pit's  mouth  was 
troubled, 

The  blackness  and  silence  so  utter, 

By  the  firework's  slow  sparkling  and 
sputter; 

Then  earth  in  a  sudden  contortion 

Gave  out  to  our  gaze  her  abortion. 

Such  a  brute  !  Were  I  friend  Clem- 
ent Marot 

(Whose  experience  of  nature's  but 
narrow, 

And  whose  faculties  move  in  no  small 
mist 

When  he  versifies  David  the  Psalm- 
ist) 

I  should  study  that  brute  to  describe 
you 

Ilium  Juda  Leonem  de  Triton. 

One's  whole  blood  grew  curdling  and 
creepy 

To  see  the  black  mane,  vast  and 
heapy, 

The  tail  in  the  air  stiff  and  straining, 

The  wide  eyes,  nor  waxing  nor  wan- 
ing, 

As  over  the  barrier  which  bounded 

His  platform,  and  us  who  surrounded 

The  barrier,  they  reached  and  they 
rested 

On  space  that  might  stand  him  in  best 
stead ; 

For  who  knew,  he  thought,  what  the 
amazement, 

The  eruption  of  clatter  and  blaza 
meant, 

And  if,  in  this  minute  of  wonder. 

No  outlet,  'mid  lightning  and  thun- 
der, 

Lay  broad,  and,  his  shackles  all  shiv- 
ered, 

The  lion  at  last  was  delivered  ? 


THE    GLOVE. 


Ay,  that  was  the  open  sky  o'erhead! 
And  you  saw  by  the  flash  on  his  fore- 
head, 
By  the  hope  in  those  eyes  wide  and 

steady, 

He  was  leagues  in  the  desert  already, 
Driving  the  flocks  up  the  mountain, 
Or  catlike  couched  hard  by  the  foun- 
tain 

To  waylay  the  date-gathering  negress: 
So  guarded  he  entrance  or  egress. 
"How  he  stands!  "  quoth  the  king: 

"  we  may  well  swear 
(No  novice,  we've  won  our  spurs  else- 
where, 

And  so  can  afford  the  confession), 
We  exercise  wholesome  discretion 
In  keeping  aloof  from  his  threshold; 
Once  hold  you,  those  jaws  want  no 

fresh  hold, 

Their  first  would  too  pleasantly  pur- 
loin 

The  visitor's  brisket  or  sirloin : 
But  who's  he  would  prove  so  fool- 
hardy ? 

Not  the  best  man  of  Marignan,  par- 
die!  " 

The  sentence  no  sooner  was  uttered, 
Than  over  the  rails  a  glove  fluttered, 
Fell  close  to  the  lion,  and  rested: 
The  dame   'twas,   who  flung  it  and 

jested 
With    life    so,  De    Lorge    had  been 

wooing 

For  months  past;  he  sat  there  pursu- 
ing 

His  suit,  weighing  out  with  noncha- 
lance 

Fine  speeches  like  gold  from  a  bal- 
ance. 

Sound  the  trumpet,  no  true  knight's 
a  tarrier! 

De  Lorge  made  one  leap  at  the  bar- 
rier. 

Walked  straight  to  the  glove,  —  while 
the  lion 

Ne'er  moved,  kept  his  far-reaching 
eye  on 

The  palm-tree-edged  desert-spring's 
sapphire, 

And  the  musky  oiled  skin  of  the  Kaf- 
fir,— 

Picked  it  up,  and  as  calmly  retreated. 

Leaped  back  where  the  lady  was 
seated, 

And  full  in  the  face  of  its  owner 

Flung  the  glove. 


"  Your  heart's  queen, 

you  dethrone  her  ? 
So    should    I!"  —  cried    the   King  — 

"  '  twas  mere  vanity, 
Not  love,  set  that  task  to  humanity!  " 
Lords  and  ladies  alike  turned  with 

loathing 
From  such  a  proved  wolf  in  sheep's 

clothing. 

Not  so,  I ;  for  I  caught  an  expression 
In  her  brow's  undisturbed  self-posses- 
sion 

Amid  the  Court's  scoffing  and  merri- 
ment, — 

As  if  from  no  pleasing  experiment 
She  rose,  yet  of  pain  not  much  heed- 
ful 

So  long  as  the  process  was  needful,  -~ 
As  if  she  had  tried,  in  a  crucible, 
To  what  "  speeches  like  gold  "  were 

reducible, 

And,  finding  the  finest  prove  copper, 
Felt  smoke  in  her  face  was  but  proper; 
To  know  what  she  had  not  to  trust 

to, 
Was  worth  all  the  ashes  and   dust 

too. 

She  went  out  'mid  hooting  and  laugh- 
ter; 
Clement    Marot    staid;    I    followed 

after, 
And  asked,  as  a  grace,  what  it  all 

meant  ? 
If  she  wished  not  the  rash  deed's  re- 

calinent  ? 

"  For  I "  — so  I  spoke  —  "  am  a  poet: 
Human    nature,  —  behooves    that    I 
know  it!  " 

She  told  me,  "  Too  long  had  I  heard 
Of   the   deed    proved   alone   by   the 

word : 
For  my  love —  what  De  Lorge  would 

not  dare! 
With  my  scorn  —  what  De  Lorge  could 

compare! 

And  the  endless  descriptions  of  death 
He  would  brave  when  my  lip  formed 

a  breath, 

I  must  reckon  as  braved,  or,  of  course, 
Doubt  his  word  —  and  moreover,  per- 
force. 

For  such  gifts  as  no  lady  could  spurn, 
Must  offer  my  love  in  return. 
When  I  looked  on  your  lion,  it  brought 
All  the  dangers  at  once  to  my  thought, 
Encountered  by  all  sorts  of  men, 
Before  he  was  lodged  in  his  den,  — 


8 


SONG. 


From  the  poor  slave  whose  club  or 
bare  hands 

Dug  the  trap,  set  the  snare  on  the 
sands, 

"With  no  King  and  no  Court  to  ap- 
plaud, 

By  no  shame,  should  he  shrink,  over- 
awed, 

Yet  to  capture  the  creature  made 
shift, 

That  his  rude  boys  might  laugh  at 
the  gift, 

—  To  the  page  who  last  leaped  o'er 

the  fence 

Of  the  pit,  on  no  greater  pretence 
Than   to   get   back   the    bonnet    he 

dropped, 
Lest  his  pay  for  a  week  should  be 

stopped. 

So,  wiser  I  judged  it  to  make 
One  trial  what  '  death  for  my  sake ' 
Really  meant,  while  the  power  was 

yet  mine, 

Than  to  wait  until  time  should  de- 
fine 

Such  a  phrase  not  so  simply  as  I, 
Who  took  it  to  mean  just '  to  die.' 
The  blow  a  glove  gives  is  but  weak: 
Does  the  mark  yet  discolor  my  cheek  ? 
But,  when  the  heart  suffers  a  blow, 
Will  the  pain  pass  so  soon,  do  you 
know  ?  " 

I  looked,  as  away  she  was  sweeping, 
And  saw  a  youth  eagerly  keeping 
As  close  as  he  dared  to  the  doorway. 
No  doubt  that  a  noble  should  more 

weigh 

His  life  than  befits  a  plebeian ; 
And  yet,  had    our  brute    been    Ne- 

mean  — 

(I  judge  by  a  certain  calm  fervor 
The  youth  stepped  with,  forward  to 

serve  her) 

—  He'd  bave  scarce  thought  you  did 

him  the  worst  turn 
If  you  whispered,  "Friend,  what  you'd 

get,  first  earn! " 

And  when,  shortly  after,  she  carried 
Her  shame  from  the  Court,  and  they 

married, 
To  that    marriage    some    happiness, 

maugre 
The  voice  of  the  Court,  I  dared  augur. 

For  De  Lorge,  he  made  women  with 

men  vie, 
Those  in  wonder  and  praise,  these  in 

envy: 


And,  in  short,  stood  so  plain  a  head 

taller 
That  he  wooed  and  won  .  .  .  how  do 

you  call  her  ? 

The  beauty,  that  rose  in  the  sequel 
To  the  King's  love,  who  loved  her  a 

week  well. 
And  'twas  noticed  he  never  would 

honor 
De  Lorge  (who  looked  daggers  upon 

her) 

With  the  easy  commission  of  stretch- 
ing 

His  legs  in  the  service,  and  fetching 
His  wrife,  from  her  chamber,   those 

straying 

Sad  gloves  she  was  always  mislaying, 
While  the  King  took  the  closet  to  chat 

in, — 
But  of  course  this  adventure  came 

pat  in. 

And  never  the  King  told  the  story, 
How  bringing  a  glove  brought  such 

But    the  wife  smiled — "His  nerves 

are  grown  firmer : 
Mine  he  brings  now  and  utters  no 

murmur." 

Venienti  occtirrite  morbo!    . 

With  which  moral  I  drop  my  theorbo. 


SONG. 


NAY  but  you,  who  do  not  love  her, 

Is  she  not  pure  gold,  my  mistress? 
Holds  earth    aught  —  speak   truth  — 

above  her  ? 
Aught  like  this  tress,  see,  and  this 

tress, 

And  this  last  fairest  tress  of  all, 
So  fair,  see,  ere  I  let  it  fall  f 


Because,  you   spend    your   lives    in 

praising ; 
To  praise,  you  search  the  wide  world 

over : 

Then  why  not  witness,  calmly  gazing, 
If  earth  holds  aught  —  speak  truth 

—  above  her  ? 

Above  this  tress,  and  this,  I  touch 
But  cannot  praise,  I  love  so  much  i 


YOUTH  AND   ART. 


A  SERENADE   AT   THE 
VILLA. 


THAT  was  I,  you  heard  last  night, 
When  there  rose  no  moon  at  aU, 

Nor,  to  pierce  the  strained  and  tight 
Tent  of  heaven,  a  planet  small : 

Life  was  dead,  and  so  was  light. 


Not  a  twinkle  from  the  fly, 
Not  a  glimmer  from  the  worm. 

"When  the  crickets  stopped  their  cry, 
When  the  owls  forbore  a  term, 

You  heard  music  :  that  was  I. 

in. 
Earth  turned  in  her  sleep  with  pain, 

Sultrily  suspired  for  proof  : 
In  at  heaven  and  out  again, 
Lightning  !  —  where    it    broke   the 

roof, 
Bloodlike,  some  few  drops  of  rain. 


What  they  could  my  words  expressed, 
O  my  love,  my  all,  my  one  ! 

Singing  helped  the  verses  best  ; 
And,  when  singing's  best  was  done, 

To  my  lute  I  left  the  rest. 


So  wore  night ;  the  east  was  gray, 
White    the    broad-faced    hemlock- 
flowers  ; 

There  would  be  another  day  ; 
Ere  its  first  of  heavy  hours 

Found  me,  I  had  passed  away. 


What  became  of  all  the  hopes, 
Words  and  song  and  lute  as  well  ? 

Say,   this  struck    you— "When  life 

gropes 
Feebly  for  the  path  where  fell 

Light  last  on  the  evening  slopes, 


"  One  friend  in  that  path  shall  be, 
To  secure  my  step  from  wrong  ; 

One  to  count  night  day  for  me, 
Patient  through  the  watches  long, 

Serving  most  with  none  to  see." 


I  Never  say  —  as  something  bodes  — 
"  So,  the  worst  has  yet  a  worse  ! 

When  life  halts  'neath  double  loads. 
Better  the  task-master's  curse 

Than  such  music  on  the  roads  ! 


"  When  no  moon  succeeds  the  sun, 
Nor  can  pierce  the  midnight's  tent, 

Any  star,  the  smallest  one, 
While  some  drops,  where  lightning 
rent, 

Show  the  final  storm  begun  — 


"  When  the  fire-fly  hides  its  spot, 
When  the  garden-voices  fail 

In  the  darkness  thick  and  hot,  — 
Shall  another  voice  avail, 

That  shape  be  where  these  are  not  ? 


"  Has  some  plague  a  longer  lease, 
Proffering  its  help  uncouth  ? 

Can't  one  even  die  in  peace  ? 
As  one  shuts  one's  eyes  on  youth, 

Is  that  face  the  last  one  sees  ?  " 

XII. 

Oh,  how  dark  your  villa  was, 
Windows  fast  and  obdurate  ! 

How  the  garden  grudged  me  grass 
Where  I  stood  —  the  iron  gate 

Ground  its  teeth  to  let  me  pass ! 


YOUTH  AND  ART. 


IT  once  might  have  been,  once  only  • 
We  lodged  in  a  street  together, 

You,    a    sparrow    on    the    housetop 

lonely, 
I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 


Your  trade  was  with  sticks  and  clay, 
You  thumbed,  thrust,  patted,  and 

polished, 
Then  laughed,  "  They  will  see,  some 

day, 

Smith    made,  and    Gibson   demol- 
ished." 


r 

>         10                                              YOUTH  AND   ART. 

in. 

Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song  : 
I    chirped,    cheeped,    trilled,    and 

Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it? 

twittered, 

J 

*•        "  Kate    Brown's    on  the  boards  ere 

XI.                                                        "    " 

long. 

I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx 

And  Gfisi's  existence  embittered  !  " 

(And  yet  the  memory  rankles), 

When  models  arrived,  some  minx 

Tripped    up    stairs,    she    and    her 

IV. 

ankles. 

I  earned  no  more  by  a  warble 

Than  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster  : 

XII. 

You  wanted  a  piece  ot  marble, 
I  needed  a  music-master. 

But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good  ! 
"That    foreign    fellow,  —  who   can 

know 

V. 

How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood, 

We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 

For  his  tuning  her  that  piano  ?  " 

Chipped  each  at  a  crust  like  Hin- 

doos, 

For  air,  looked  out  on  the  tiles. 

XIII. 

For  fun,  watched  each  other's  win- 
dows. 

Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say, 
"  Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fof 

tunes, 

VI. 

And  I  fetch  her  from  over  the  way, 

You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 
Cap  and  blouse  —  nay,  a  bit  of  beard 

Her,  piano,  and  long  tunes  and  short 
tunes?" 

too  ; 

Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  your  mouth 
With  fingers  the  clay  adhered  to. 

xrv. 

No,  no  ;  you  would  not  be  rash, 

Nor  I  rasher  and  something  over  : 

vn. 

And  I  —  soon  managed  to  find 

You've  to  settle  yet  Gibson's  hash, 
And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 

Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  fa- 

cing, 

Was  forced  to  put  up  a  blind 
And  be  safe  in  my  corset-lacing. 

XV. 

But   you   meet   the    Prince    at    the 

"Board, 

vni. 

I'm  queen  myself  at  bals-part, 
I've  married  a  rich  old  lord, 

No  harm  !    It  was  not  my  fault 

And  you're  dubbed  knight  and  an 

If  you  never  turned  your  eye's  tail 

R.A. 

up 

As  I  shook  upon  E  in  alt.  , 

XVI. 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up  ; 

Each  life's  unfulfilled,  you  see; 

It  hangs  still,  patchy  and  scrappy: 

IX. 

We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 
And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 
And  stalls  in  our  street  looked  rare 

free, 
Starved,  feasted,  despaired,  —  been 
happy. 

AYith  bulrush  and  watercresses. 

t\ 

n 

xvn.                                    ^  (* 

And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce, 

X. 

And  people  suppose  me  clever: 

Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 
In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  >'t  ? 

This  could  but  have  happened  once, 
And  we  missed  it,  lost  it  forever. 

V 

V 

TV                                                                                                                /r- 

"-LUff-l  a'                                                             «.  —  i—  ^LLP' 

THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


11 


THE    FLIGHT    OF    THE 
DUCHESS. 


YOU'RE  my  friend: 

I  was  the  man  the  Duke  spoke  to ; 

I  helped  the  Duchess  to  cast  off  his 

yoke, too: 
So,  here's  the  tale  from  beginning  to 

end, 
My  friend ! 


Ours  is  a  great  wild  country: 

If  you  climb  to  our  castle's  top, 

I  don't  see  where  your  eye  can  stop; 

For  when  you've  passed  the  corn-field 

country, 
Where  vineyards  leave  off,  flocks  are 

packed, 

And  sheep-range  leads  to  cattle-tract, 
And  cattle-tract  to  open-chase, 
And  open-chase  to  the  very  base 
O'  the  mountain  where,  at  a  funeral 

face, 
about,  solemn  and  slow, 
One  by  one,  row  after  row, 
Up  and  up  the  pine-trees  go, 
So,  like  black  priests  up,  and  so 
Down  the  other  side  again 
To  another  greater,  wilder  country, 
That's  one  vast  red  drear  burnt-up 

plain, 
Branched  through  and  through  with 

many  a  vein 
Whence    iron's    dug,    and    copper's 

dealt; 
Look  right,  look  left,  look  straight 

before,  — 

Beneath  they  mine,  above  they  smelt, 
Copper-ore  and  iron-ore, 
And  forge  and  furnace  mould  and 

melt, 

And  so  on,  more  a.id  ever  more, 
Till  at  the  last,  for  a  bounding  belt, 
Comes  the  salt  sand  hoar  of  the  great 

seashore, 

—  And  the  whole  is  our  Duke's  coun- 
try. 

in. 
I  was  born  the  day  this  present  Duke 

was  — 

(And  O,  says  the  song,  ere  I  was  old  !) 
In  the  castle  where  the  other  Duke 

was  — 
(When  I  was  happy  and  young,  not 

old!) 


I  in  the  kennel,  he  in  the  bower: 
We  are  of  like  age  to  an  hour. 
My  father  was  huntsman  in  that  day: 
Who  has  not  heard  my  father  say, 
That,  when  a  boar  was  brought  to 

bay, 

Three  times,  four  times  out  of  five, 
With  his  huntspear  he'd  contrive 
To  get  the  killing-place  transfixed, 
And  pin  him  true,  both  eyes  betwixt  ? 
And  that's  why  the  old  Duke  would 

rather 

He  lost  a  salt-pit  than  my  father, 
And  loved  to  have  him  ever  in  call; 
That's  why  my  father  stood  in  the 

hall 

When  the  old  Duke  brought  his  in- 
fant out 
To  show  the  people,  and  while  they 

passed 

The  wondrous  bantling  round  about, 
Was  first  to  start  at  the  outside  blast 
As  the  Kaiser's  courier  blew  his  horn, 
Just  a  month  after  the  babe  was  born. 
"And,"  quoth  the  Kaiser's  courier, 

"since 

The  Duke  has  got  an  heir,  our  Prince 
Needs  the  Duke's  self  at  his  side:  " 
The  Duke  looked  down  and  seemed 

to  wince, 
But  he  thought  of  wars  o'er  the  world 

wide, 

Castles  a-fire,  men  on  their  march, 
The  toppling  tower,  the  crashing  arch ; 
And  up  he  looked,  and  a  while  he 

eyed 
The  row  of  crests  and  shields  and 

banners 

Of  all  achievements  after  all  manners, 
And  "  Ay,"  said  the  Duke  with  a 

surly  pride. 
The  more  was  his  comfort  when  he 

died 

At  next  year's  end,  in  a  velvet  suit, 
With  a  gilt  glove  on  his  hand,  his  foot 
In  a  silken  shoe  for  a  leather  boot, 
Petticoated  like  a  herald, 
In  a  chamber  next  to  an  ante-room, 
Where  he  breathed  the  breath  of  page 

and  groom, 

What  he  called  stink,  and  they,  per- 
fume : 
—  Thev  should  have  set  him  on  red 

Berold 

Mad  with  pride,  like  fire  to  manage  ! 
They  should  have  got  his  cheek  fresh 

tannage 
Such  a  day  as  to-day  in  the  merry 

sunshine  ! 


12 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


Had  they  stuck  on  his  fist  a  rough- 
foot  merlin  ! 

(Hark,  the  wind's  on  the  heath  at  its 
game  ! 

Oh  for  a  noble  falcon-lanner 

To  flap  each  broad  wing  like  a  ban- 
ner, 

And  turn  in  the  wind,  and  dance  like 
flame  !) 

Had  they  broached  a  cask  of  white 
beer  from  Berlin ! 

—  Or  if  you  incline  to  prescribe  mere 

wine, 
Put  to  his  lips  when  they  saw  him 

pine, 

A  cup  of  our  own  Moldavia  fine, 
Cotnar  for  instance,  green  as  May 

sorrel 
And  ropy  with  sweet,  —  we  shall  not 

quarrel. 

IV. 

So,   at   home,   the   sick   tall  yellow 

Duchess 
Was    left   with    the    infant    in    her 

clutches, 
She  being  the  daughter  of  God  knows 

who: 
And  now  was  the  time  to  revisit  her 

tribe. 

Abroad  and  afar  they  went,  the  two, 
And  let  our  people  rail  and  gibe 
At  the  empty  hall  and  extinguished 

fire, 

As  loud  as  we  liked,  but  ever  in  vain, 
Till  after  long  years  we  had  our  de- 
sire, 
And   back  came  the  Duke  and  his 

mother  again. 

v. 

And  he  came  back  the  pertest  little 

ape 

That  ever  affronted  human  shape; 
Full  of  his  travel,  struck  at  himself. 
You'd  say,  he  despised  our  bluff  old 

ways  ? 

—  Not  he!    For  in  Paris  they  told  the 

elf 
That  our  rough  North  land  was  the 

Land  of  Lays, 

The  one  good  thing  left  in  evil  days; 
Since  the  Mid- Age  was  the  Heroic 

Time, 

And  only  in  wild  nooks  like  ours 
Could  you  taste  of  it  yet  as  in  its 

prime, 
And   see   true   castles   with   proper 

towers, 


Young-hearted    women,    old-minded 

men, 
And  manners  now  as  manners  were 

then. 
So,  all  that  the  old  Dukes  had  been. 

without  knowing  it, 
This  Duke  would  fain  know  he  was, 

without  being  it; 
'Twas  not  for  the  joy's  self,  but  the 

joy  of  his  showing  it, 
Nor  for  the  pride's  self,  but  the  pride 

of  our  seeing  it, 
He    revived    all    usages    thoroughly 

worn-out, 
The  souls  of  them  fumed-forth,  the 

hearts  of  them  torn-out : 
And  chief  in  the  chase  his  neck  he 

perilled, 

On  a  lathy  horse,  all  legs  and  length; 
With  blood  for  bone,  all  speed,  no 

strength ; 
—  They  should  have  set  him  on  red 

Berold 
With  the  red  eve  slow  consuming  in 

fire, 
And  the  thin  stiff  ear  like  an  abbey 


spire 


Well,  such  as  he  was,  he  must  marry, 

we  heard ; 

And  out  of  a  convent,  at  the  word, 
Came  the  lady,  in  time  of  spring. 
—  Oh,  old  thoughts  they  cling,  they 

cling! 
That    day,    I    know,    with    a    dozen 

oaths 

I  clad  myself  in  thick  hunting-clothes 
Fit  for  the  chase  of  urox  or  bufiie 
Irr  winter-time   when   you    need    to 

muftie. 
But  the  Duke  had  a  mind  we  should 

cut  a  figure, 

And  so  we  saw  the  lady  arrive : 
My  friend,  I  have  seen  a  white  crane 

bigger! 

She  was  the  smallest  lady  alive, 
Made  in  a  piece  of  nature's  madness, 
Too  small,  almost,  for  the  life  and 

gladness 

That  over-filled  her,  as  some  hive 
Out  of  the  bears'  reach  on  the  high 

trees 

Is  crowded  with  its  safe  merry  bees: 
In  truth,  she  was  not  hard  to  please! 
Up  she  looked,  down  she  looked, 

round  at  the  mead, 
Straight  at  the  castle,  that's  best  >n- 

dead 


The  Flight  of  the  Duchess.  — Page  13. 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE   DUCHESS. 


To  look  at  from  outside  the  walls: 
As    for    us,    styled    the    "  serfs    and 

thralls,"  ' 
She  as  much  thanked  me  as  if  she  had 

said  it, 

(With  her  eyes,  do  you  understand  ?) 
Because  I  patted  her  horse  while  I 

led  it; 
-ind   Max,   who   rode   on   her  other 

hand, 

Said,   no  bird  flew  past  but  she  in- 
quired 
What  its  true  name  was,   uor  ever 

seemed  tired  — 

If  that  was  an  eagle  she  saw  hover, 
And  the  green  and  gray  bird  on  the 

field  was  the  plover, 
When  suddenly  appeared  the  Duke: 
And  as  down  she  sprung,  the  small 

foot  pointed 

On  to  my  hand,  —  as  with  a  rebuke, 
And    as   if   his   backbone   were    not 

jointed, 
The  Duke  stepped  rather  aside  than 

forward, 
And  welcomed  her  with  his  grandest 

smile  ; 
And,   mind  you,  his  mother  all  the 

while 
Chilled  in  the  rear,  like  a  wind  to 

nor'ward  ; 
And  up,  like  a  weary  yawn,  with  its 

pulleys 

Went,  in  a  shriek,  the  rusty  portcul- 
lis ; 
And,  like  a  glad  sky  the  north-wind 

sullies, 

The  lady's  face  stopped  its  play, 
As  if  her  first  hair  had  grown  gray; 
For  such  things  must  begin  some  one 

day. 

VII. 

In  a  day  or  two  she  was  well  again  ; 
As  who  should  say,  "  You  labor  in 

vain  ! 
"  This  is  all  a  jest  against  God,  who 

meant 

I  should  ever  be,  as  I  am,  content 
And  glad  in  his  sight;  therefore,  glad 

I  will  he." 
So,  smiling  as  at  first  went  she. 

VIII. 

She  was  active,  stirring,  all  fire  — 
Could  not  rest,  could  not  tire  — 
To  a  stone  she  might  have  given  life  ! 
(I  myself  loved  once,  in  my  day) 


—  For  a  shepherd's,  miner's,  hunts- 
man's wife, 

(I  had  a  wife,  I  know  what  I  say) 

Never  in  all  the  world  such  an  one! 

And  here  was  plenty  to  be  done, 

And  she  that  could  do  it,  great  or 
small, 

She  was  to  do  nothing  at  all. 

There  was  already  this  man  in  his 
post, 

This  in  his  station,  and  that  in  his 
office, 

And  the  Duke's  plan  admitted  a  wife, 
at  most, 

To  meet  his  eye,  with  the  other  tro- 
phies, 

Now  outside  the  hall,  now  in  it, 

To  sit  thus,  stand  thus,  see  and  be 
seen, 

At  the  proper  place  in  the  proper 
minute, 

And  die  away  the  life  between. 

And  it  was  amusing  enough,  each  in- 
fraction 

Of  rule  —  (but  for  after-sadness  that 
came) 

To  hear  the  consummate  self-satisfac- 
tion 

With  which  the  young  Duke  and  the 
old  dame 

Would  let  her  advise,  and  criticise, 

And,  being  a  fool,  instruct  the 
wise, 

And,  childlike,  parcel  out  praise  or 
blame  : 

They  bore  it  all  in  complacent  guise, 

As  though  an  artificer,  after  contriv- 
ing 

A  wheel-work  image  as  if  it  were 
living, 

Should  find  with  delight  it  could  mo- 
tion to  strike  him  ! 

So  found  the  Duke,  and  his  mother 
like  him  : 

The  lady  hardly  got  a  rebuff  — 

That  had  not  been  contemptuous 
enough, 

With  his  cursed  smirk,  as  he  nodded 
applause, 

And  kept  off  the  old  mother-cat's 
claws. 


So,  the  little   lady  grew   silent   ami 

thin, 

Paling  and  ever  paling, 
As  the  way  is  with  a  hid^ chagrin  : 
And  the  Duke  perceived   that  she 
was  ailing, 


14 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


And  said  in  his  heart,  "  'Tis  done  to 

spite  me, 
"But  I  shall  find  in  my  power  to 

right  me  ! " 
Don't  swear,  friend  !    The  old  one, 

many  a  year, 
Is  in  hell;  and  the  Duke's  self  .  .  . 

you  shall  hear. 


Well,  early  in  autumn,  at  first  winter- 
warning, 

When  the  stag  had  to  break  with  his 
foot,  of  a  morning, 

A  drinking-hole  out  of  the  fresh  ten- 
der ice, 

That  covered  the  pond  till  the  sun,  in 
a  trice, 

Loosening  it,  let  out  a  ripple  of  gold, 

And  another  and  another,  and  faster 
and  faster, 

Till,  dimpling  to  blindness,  the  wide 
water  rolled, 

Then  it  so  chanced  that  the  Duke  our 
master 

Asked  himself  what  were  the  pleas- 
ures in  season, 

And  found,  since  the  calendar  bade 
him  be  hearty, 

He  should  do  the  Middle  Age  no  trea- 
son 

In  resolving  on  a  hunting-party. 

Always  provided,  old  books  showed 
the  way  of  it ! 

What  meant  old  poets  by  their  stric- 
tures ? 

And  when  old  poets  had  said  their 
say  of  it, 

How  taught  old  painters  in  their  pic- 
tures ? 

We  must  revert  to  the  proper  chan- 
nels, 

Workings  in  tapestry,  paintings  on 
panels, 

And  gather  up  woodcraft's  authentic 
traditions : 

Here  was  food  for  our  various  ambi- 
tions, 

As  on  each  case,  exactly  stated — 

To  encourage  your  dog,  now,  the  prop- 
erest  chirrup, 

Or  best  prayer  to  St.  Hubert  on 
mounting  your  stirrup  — 

We  of  the  household  took  thought 
and  debated. 

Blessed  was  he  whose  back  ached 
with  the  jerkin 

His  sire  was  wont  to  do  forest-work  in ; 


Blesseder  he  who  nobly  sunk  "  ohs '" 
And  "ahs"  while  he  "tugged  on  his 

grandsire's  trunk-hose  ; 
What  signified  hats  if  they  had  no 

rims  on, 
Each  slouching  before  and  behind  like 

the  scallop, 

And  able  to  serve  at  sea  for  a  shallop, 
Loaded  with  lacquer  and  looped  with 

crimson  ? 
So  that  the  deer  now,  to  make  a  short 

rhyme  on't, 
What   with    our  Venerers,   Prickers, 

and  Verderers, 
Might  hope  for  real  hunters  at  length 

and  not  murderers, 
And  oh  the  Duke's  tailor,  he  had  a 

hot  time  on't ! 


Now  you  must  know  that  when  the 
first  dizziness 

Of  flap-hats  and  buff-coats  and  jack- 
boots subsided, 

The  Duke  put  this  question,  "  The 
Duke's  part  provided, 

Had  not  the  Duchess  some  share  in 
the  business?" 

For  out  of  the  mouth  of  two  or  three 
witnesses 

Did  he  establish  all  fit-or-unfitnesses; 

And,  after  much  laying  of  heads  to- 
gether, 

Somebody's  cap  got  a  notable  feather 

By  the  announcement  with  proper 
unction 

That  he  had  discovered  the  lady's 
function; 

Since  ancient  authors  gave  this  tenet, 

"  When  horns  wind  a  mort  and  the 
deer  is  at  siege, 

Let  the  dame  of  the  castle  prick  forth 
on  her  jennet, 

And  with  water  to  wash  the  hands  of 
her  liege 

In  a  clean  ewer  with  a  fair  towelling, 

Let  her  preside  at  the  disembowel- 
ling." 

Now,  my  friend,  if  you  had  so  little 
religion 

As  to  catch  a  hawk,  some  falcon- 
lanner, 

And  thrust  her  broad  wings  like  a 
banner 

Into  a  coop  for  a  vulgar  pigeon  ; 

And  if  day  by  day  and  week  by  week 

You  cut  her  claws,  and  sealed  her 
eyes, 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


15 


And  clipped  her  wings,  and  tied  her 
bewc, 

'Would  it  cause  you  any  great  sur- 
priss 

If,  wlien  you  decided  to  give  her  an 
airing, 

You  found  she  needed  a  little  pre- 
paring ? 

—  I  say,  should  you  be  such  a  cur- 
mudgeon, 

If  she  clang  to  the  perch,  as  to  take  it 
in  dudgeon  ? 

Yet  when  the  Duke  to  his  lady  signi- 
fied, 

Just  a  day  before,  as  he  judged  most 
dignified, 

In  w)iat  a  pleasure  she  was  to  partici- 
pate, — 

And,  Instead  of  leaping  wide  in 
flashes, 

Her  eyes  just  lifted  their  long 
lashes, 

As  if  pressed  by  fat:gue  even  he  could 
not  dissipate, 

And  duiy  acknowledged  the  Duke's 
forethought, 

But  spoke  of  her  health,  if  her  health 
were  worth  aught, 

Of  the  weight  by  day  and  the  watch 
by  nightr 

And  much  wrong  now  that  used  to  be 
right, 

So,  thanking  him,  declined  the  hunt- 
ing, — 

Was  conduct  ever  more  affronting? 

With  all  the  ceremony  settled  — 

With  the  towel  ready,  and  the  sewer 

Polishing  up  his  oldest  ewer, 

And  the  jennet  pitched  upon,  a  pie- 
bald, 

Black-barred,  cream-coated,  and  pink 
eye-balled,  — 

No  wonder  if  the  Duke  was  nettled  ! 

And  when  she  persisted  neverthe- 
less, — 

Well,  I  suppose  here's  the  time  to 
confess 

That  there  ran  half  round  our  lady's 
chamber 

A  balcony  noue  of  the  hardest  to 
clamber  ; 

And  that  Jacynth  the  tire-woman, 
ready  in  waiting, 

Staid  in  call  outside,  what  need  of 
relating  ? 

And  since  Jacynth  was  like  a  June 
rose,  why,  a  fervent 

Adorer  of  Jacynth  of  course  was 
your  servant ; 


And  if  she  had  the  habit  to  peep 
through  the  casement, 

How  could  I  keep  at  any  vast  dis- 
tance ? 

And  so,  as  I  say,  on  the  lady's  per- 
sistence, 

The  Duke,  dumb  stricken  with 
amazement, 

Stood  for  a  while  in  a  sultry  smother. 

And  then,  with  a  smile  that  partook 
of  the  awful, 

Turned  her  over  to  his  yellow  mother 

To  learn  what  was  decorous  aud  law- 
ful ; 

And  the  mother  smelt  blood  with  a 
cat-like  instinct, 

As  her  cheek  quick  whitened  through 
all  its  quince-tinct. 

Oh,  but  the  lady  heard  the  whole 
truth  at  once  ! 

What  meant  she  ?  —  Who  was  she  ? 
—  Her  duty  and  station, 

The  wisdom  of  age  aud  the  folly  o/ 
youth,  at  once, 

Its  decent  regard  and  its  fitting  rela- 
tion — 

In  brief,  rny  friends,  set  all  the  devilr 
in  hell  free 

And  turn  them  out  to  carouse  in  a 
belfry 

And  treat  the  priests  to  a  fifty-part 
canon, 

And  then  you  may  guess  how  that 
tongue  of  hers  ran  on  ! 

Well,  somehow  or  other  it  ended  at 
last, 

And,  licking  her  whiskers,  out  she- 
passed  ; 

And  after  her,  —  making  (he  hoped)  & 
face 

Like  Emperor  Nero  or  Sultan  Sa- 
ladin, 

Stalked  the  Duke's  self  with  the  au- 
stere grace 

Of  ancient  hero  or  modern  paladin, 

From  door  to  staircase  —  oh  such  a 
solemn 

Unbending  of  the  vertebral  column  ! 


However,   at    sunrise    our   company 

mustered  ; 
And  here  was  the  huntsman  bidding 

unkennel, 
And  there  'neath  his  bonnet  the  prick' 

er  blustered, 
With  feather  dank  as  a  bough  of  wet 

fennel  ; 


16 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


For  the  court-yard  walls  were  filled 

with  fog 

You  might  cut  as  an  axe  chops  a  log  — 
Like  so  much  wool  for  color  and  bulk- 

iness : 
And  out  rode  the  Duke  in  a  perfect 

sulkiness  ; 
Since,  before  breakfast,  a  man  feels 

but  queasily, 

And  a  sinking  at  the  lower  abdomen 
Begins     the     day    with     indifferent 

omen. 

And  lo !    as   he   looked  around  un- 
easily, 
The  sun   ploughed   the    fog   up    and 

drove  it  asunder, 
This  way  and  that,  from  the  valley 

under ; 
And,  looking  through  the  court-yard 

arch, 
Down  in  the  valley,  what  should  meet 

him 

But  a  troop  of  gypsies  on  their  march  ? 
No  doubt  with  the  annual  gifts  to 

greet  him. 


Now,  in  your  land,  gypsies  reach  you, 
only 

After  reaching  all  lands  beside  : 

North  they  go,  South  they  go,  troop- 
ing or  lonely, 

And  still,  as  they  travel  far  and  wide, 

Catch  they  and  keep  now  a  trace  here, 
a  trace  there, 

That  puts  you  in  mind  of  a  place  here, 
a  place  there. 

But  with  us,  I  believe  they  rise  out  of 
the  ground, 

And  nowhere  else,  I  take  it,  are  found 

With  the  earth-tint  yet  so  freshly  em- 
browned ; 

Born,   no  doubt,   like  insects  which 
breed  on 

The  very  fruit  they  are  meant  to  feed 
on. 

For  the  earth  —  not  a  use  to  which 
they  don't  turn  it, 

The  ore  that  grows  in  the  mountain's 
womb, 

Or  the  sand  in  the  pits  like  a  honey- 
comb, 

They  sift  and  soften  it,  bake  it  and 
burn  it  — 

Whether  they  weld  you,  for  instance, 
a  snaffle 

side-bars    never   a   brute    can 
baffle; 


Or  a  lock  that's  a  puzzle  of  wards 

within  wards  ; 
Or,  if  your  colt's  fore  foot  inclines  to 

curve  inwrards, 
Horseshoes  they  hammer  which  turn 

on  a  swivel 

And  won't  allow  the  hoof  to  shrivel. 
Then  they  cast  bells  like  the  shell 

of  the  winkle 
That  keep  a  stout  heart  in  the  ram 

with  their  tinkle  ; 
But  the  sand  —  they  pinch  and  pound 

it  like  otters  ; 
Commend  me  to  gypsy  glass-makers 

and  potters  ! 
Glasses    they'll    blow    you,    crystal, 

clear, 
Where  just  a  faint  cloud  of  rose  shall 

appear, 
As  if  in  pure  water  you  dropped  and 

let  die 

A  bruised  black-blooded  mulberry  ; 
And  that  other  sort,  their  crowning 

pride, 

With  long  white  threads  distinct  in- 
side, 
Like   the   lake-flower's  fibrous  roots 

which  dangle 

Loose  such  a  length  and  never  tangle, 
Where  the  bold  sword-lily  cuts  the 

clear  waters, 
And  the  cup-lily  couches  with  all  the 

white  daughters  : 
Such  are  the  works  they  put  their 

hand  to, 
The  uses  they  turn  and  twist  iron  and 

sand  to. 
And  these  made  the  troop,  which  our 

Duke  saw  sally 
Toward   his  castle  from  out  of  the 

valley, 
Men  and  women,  like  new-hatched 

spiders, 
Come  out  with  the  morning  to  greet 

our  riders. 
And  up  they  wound  till  they  reached 

the  ditch, 
Whereat    all    stopped    save    one,    a 

witch 
That  I  knew,  as  she  hobbled  from  the 

group, 

By  her  gait  directly  and  her  stoop, 
I,  whom  Jacynth  was  used  to  impor- 
tune 

To  let  that  same  witch  tell  us  our  for- 
tune, 

The  oldest  gypsy  then  above  ground  ; 
Aiid,  sure  as  the  autumn  season  came 

round, 


THE  FLIGHT  OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


17 


She  paid  us  a  visit  for  profit  or  pas- 
time, 

And  every  time,  as  she  swore,  for  the 
last  time. 

And  presently  she  was  seen  to  sidle 

Up  to  the  Duke  till  she  touched  his 
bridle, 

So  that  the  horse  of  a  sudden  reared 
up 

As  under  its  nose  the  old  witch  peered 
up 

With  her  worn-out  eyes,  or  rather  eye- 
holes, 

Of  no  use  now  but  to  gather  brine, 

And  began  a  kind  of  level  whine 

Such  as  they  used  to  sing  to  their 
viols 

When  their  ditties  they  go  grinding 

Up  and  down  with  nobody  minding  ; 

And  then,  as  of  old,  at  the  end  of  the 
humming 

Her  usual  presents  were  forthcoming 

—  A  dog-whistle  blowing  the  fiercest 
of  trebles 

(Just  a  seashore  stone  holding  a  doz- 
en fine  pebbles), 

Or  a  porcelain  mouth-piece  to  screw 
on  a  pipe-end,  — 

And  so  she  awaited  her  annual  sti- 
pend. 

But  this  rime  the  Duke  would  scarcely 
vouchsafe 

A  word  in  reply  ;  and  in  vain  she 
felt 

With  twitching  fingers  at  her  belt 

For  the  purse  of  sleek  pine-martin 
pelt, 

Ready  to  put  what  he  gave  in  her 
pouch  safe, — 

Till,  either  to  quicken  his  apprehen- 
sion, 

Or  possibly  with  an  after-intention, 

She  was  come,  she  said,  to  pay  her 
duty 

To  the  new  Duchess,  the  youthful 
beauty. 

No  sooner  had  she  named  his  lady, 

Thau  a  shine  lit  up  the  face  so  shady, 

And  its  smirk  returned  with  a  novel 
meaning  — 

For  it  struck  him,  the  babe  just  want- 
ed weaning ; 

If  one  gave  her  a  taste  of  what  life 
was  and  sorrow, 

She,  foolish  to-day,  would  be  wiser 
to-morrow  ; 

And  who  so  fit  a  teacher  of  .trouble 

As  this  sordid  crone  bent  well-nigh 
double  ? 


So,  glancing  at  her  wolf-skin  vesture 
(If  such  it  was,  for  they  grow  so  hip 

sute 

That  their  own  fleece  serves  for  nat- 
ural fur-suit) 
He  was  contrasting,  'twas  plain  from 

his  gesture, 
The  life  of  the  lady  so  flower-like  and 

delicate 
With  the  loathsome  squalor  of   this 

helicat. 
I,  in  brief,   was  the  man  the  Duke 

beckoned 
From  out  of  the  throng  ;  and  while  I 

drew  near 
He  told  the  crone  —  as  I  since  have 

reckoned 
By  the  way  he  bent  and  spoke  into 

her  ear 

With  circumspection  and  mystery  — 
The  main  of  the  lady's  history, 
Her  frowardness  and  ingratitude  ; 
And  for  all  the  crone's   submissive 

attitude 
I  could  see  round  her  mouth  the  loose 

plaits  tightening, 

And  her  brow  with  assenting  intelli- 
gence brightening, 
As  though  she  engaged  with  hearty 

good  will 
Whatever  he   now  might    enjoin  to 

fulfil, 
And  promised  the  lady  a  thorough 

frightening. 

And  so,  just  giving  her  a  glimpse 
Of  a  purse,  with  the  air  of  a  man  who 

imps 
The  wing  of  the  hawk  that  shall  fetch 

the  hernshaw, 

He  bade  me  take  the  gypsy  mother 
And  set  her   telling   some  story  or 

other 

Of  hill  or  dale,  oak-wood  or  fernshaw, 
To  while  away  a  weary  hour 
For  the  lady  left  alone  in  her  bower, 
Whose  mind  and  body  craved  exer- 
tion 
And  yet  shrank  from  all  better  diver- 


Then  clapping  heel  to  his  horse,  the 

mere  curveter, 
Out   rode    the  Duke,    and    after    his 

hollo 
Horses  and  hounds  swept,  huntsman 

and  servitor, 
And  back  I  turned  and  bade  the  crone 

follow. 


18 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


And  what  makes  me  confident  what's 
to  be  told  you 

Had  all  along  been  of  this  crone's 
devising, 

Is,  that,  on  looking  round  sharply, 
behold  you, 

There  was  a  novelty  quick  as  surpris- 
ing : 

For  first,  she  had  shot  up  a  full  head 
in  stature, 

And  her  step  kept  pace  with  mine  nor 
faltered, 

As  if  age  had  foregone  its  usurpature, 

And  the  ignoble    mien  was  wholly 
altered, 

And  the  face  looked  quite  of  another 
nature, 

And  the  change  reached  too,  whatever 
the  change  meant, 

Her  shaggy  wolf-skin  cloak's  arrange- 
ment : 

For  where  its  tatters  hung  loose  like 
sedges, 

Gold    coins    were    glittering  on  the 
edges, 

Like  the  band-roll  strung  with  tomans 

Which    proves    the    veil    a   Persian 
woman's : 

And  under  her  brow,  like  a  snail's 
horns  newly 

Come  out  as  after  the  rain  he  paces, 

Two  unmistakable  eye-points  duly 

Live  and  aware  looked  out  of  their 
places. 

So,  we  went  and  found  Jacynth  at  the 
entry 

Of  the  lady's  chamber  standing  sen- 
try; 

I  told  the  command  and  produced  my 
companion, 

And  Jacynth  rejoiced  to  admit  any 
one, 

For  since  last    night,  by  the    same 

token, 
Not    a    single    word    had    the    lady 

spoken : 
They  went  in  both  to  the  presence 

together, 

While  I  in  the  balcony  watched  the 
weather. 


And  now,  what  took  place  at  the  very 

first  of  all, 
I  cannot  tell,  as  I  never  could  learn 

it: 
Jacynth  constantly  wished  a  curse  to 

fall 
On  that  little  head  of  hers  and  burn  it 


f  she  knew  how  she  came  to  drop  so 

soundly 
Asleep  of  a  sudden,  and  there  con-: 

tinue 

The    whole    time,    sleeping    as    pro- 
foundly 
As  one  of  the  boars  my  father  would 

pin  you 

'Twixt  the  eyes  where  life  holds  gar- 
rison, 

—  Jacynth  forgive  me  the  comparison! 
But  w'here  I  begin  my  own  narration 
Is  a  little  after  I  took  my  station 
To  breathe    the    fresh  air  from  the 

balcony, 
And,  having  in  those  days  a  falcon 

eye, 
To  follow  the  hunt  through  the  open 

country, 
From    where     the     bushes    thinlier 

crested 
The  hillocks,  to  a  plain  where's  not 

one  tree. 
When,  in    a   moment,  my  ear    was 

arrested 

By  —  was  it  singing,  or  was  it  saying, 
Or  a  strange  musical  instrument  play- 
ing 

In  the  chamber?  —  and  to  be  certain 
I  pushed  the  lattice,  pulled  the  cur- 
tain, 

And  there  lay  Jacynth  asleep, 
Yet -as  if  a  watch  she  tried  to  keep, 
In  a  rosy  sleep  along  the  floor 
With  her  head  against  the  door ; 
While  in  the  midst,  on  the  seat  of 

state, 

Was  a  queen  —  the  gypsy  woman  late, 
With  head  and  face  downbent 
On  the  lady's  head  and  face  intent : 
For,  coiled"  at  her  feet  like  a  child  at 

ease, 

The  lady  sat  between  her  knees, 
And  o'er    them    the    lady's  clasped 

hands  met, 

And  on  those  hands  her  chin  was  set, 
And  her  upturned  face  met  the  face 

of  the  crone 
Wherein    the    eyes    had  grown  and 

grown 

As  if  she  could  double  and  quadruple 
At  pleasure  the  play  of  either  pupil 
—  Very  like,  by  her  hands'  slow  fan- 
ning, 
As  up  and  down  like  a  gor-crow  s 

flappers 

They    moved   to    measure,    or    bell- 
clappers. 
I  said,  "  Is  it  blessing,  is  it  banning, 


Till-:  FLIGHT   OF  THE  DUCHESS. 


19 


Do  they  applaud  you  or  burlesque 
you  — 

Those  hands  and  fingers  with  no  flesh 
on?" 

But,  just  as  I  thought  to  spring  in  to 
the  rescue, 

At  once  I  was  stopped  by  the  lady's 
expression  : 

For  it  was  life  her  eyes  were  drinking 

From  the  crone's  wide  pair  above  un- 
winking, 

—  Life's  pure  fire,  received  without 

shrinking, 

Into  the  heart  and  breast  whose  heav- 
ing 

Told  you  no  single  drop  they  were 
leaving, 

—  Life,  that    filling  her,  passed   re- 

dundant 

Into  her  very  hair,  back  swerving 

Over  each  shoulder,  loose  and  abun- 
dant, 

As  her  head  thrown  back  showed  the 
white  throat  curving ; 

And  the  very  tresses  shared  in  the 
pleasure, 

Moving  to  the  mystic  measure, 

Bounding  as  the  bosom  bounded. 

I  stopped  short,  more  and  more  con- 
founded, 

As  still  her  cheeks  burned  and  eyes 
glistened, 

As  she  listened  and  she  listened  :    • 

"When  all  at  once  a  hand  detained 
me, 

The  selfsame  contagion  gained  me, 

And  I  kept  time  to  the  wondrous 
chime, 

Making  out  words  and  prose  and 
rhyme, 

Till  it  seemed  that  the  music  furled 

Its  wings  like  a  task  fulfilled,  and 
dropped 

From  under  the  words  it  first  had 
propped, 

And  left  them  midway  in  the  world, 

Word  took  word  as  hand  takes 
hand, 

I  could  hear  at  last,  and  understand. 

And  when  I  held  the  unbroken  thread, 

The  gypsy  said,  — 

"  And  so  at  last  we  find  my  tribe. 
And  so  I  set  thee  in  the  midst, 
And  to  one  and  all  of  them  describe 
What    tliou    saidst    and    what    thou 

didst, 

Our  long  and  terrible  journey  through, 
And  all  thou  art  readr  to  say  and  do 


In  the  trials  that  remain  : 

I  trace  them  the  vein  and  the  other 

vein 

That  meet  on  thy  brow  and  part  again, 
Making  our  rapid  mystic  mark  ; 
And  I  bid  my  people  prove  and  probe 
Each    eye's    profound    and   glorious 

globe, 

Till  they  detect  the  kindred  spark 
In  those  depths  so  dear  and  dark, 
Like  the  spots  that  snap  and  burst 

and  rlee, 

Circling  over  the  midnight  sea. 
And  on  that  round  young  cheek  oi 

thine 

I  make  them  recognize  the  tinge, 
As  when  of  the  costly  scarlet  wine 
They  drip  so  much  as  will  impinge 
And  spread  in  a  thinnest  scale  anoat 
One  thick  gold  drop  from,  the  olive's 

coat 

Over  a  silver  plate  whose  sheen 
Still  through  the  mixture  shall  be  seen. 
For  so  I  prove  thee,  to  one  and  all, 
Fit,  when  my  people  ope  their  breast, 
To  see  the  sign,  and  hear  the  call, 
And  take  the  vow,  and  stand  the  test 
Which  adds  one  more  child  to  the 

rest  — 
When  the  breast  is  bare  and  the  arms 

are  wide, 

And  the  world  is  left  outside. 
For  there  is  probation  to  decree, 
And  many  and  long  must  the  trials  be 
Thou  shalt  victoriously  endure, 
If  that  brow  is  true  and  those  eyes 

are  sure  ; 

Like  a  jewel-finder's  fierce  assay 
Of  the  prize  he  dug  from  its  moun- 
tain tomb,  — 

Let  once  the  vindicating  ray 
Leap  out  amid  the  anxious  gloom, 
And  steel  and  fire  have  done  their 

part, 
And  the  prize  falls   on   its   finder's 

heart ; 

So,  trial  after  trial  past, 
Wilt  thou  fall  at  the  very  last 
Breathless,  half  in  trance 
With  the  thrill  of  the  great  deliver- 
ance, 

Into  our  arms  for  evermore  ; 
And    thou   shalt   know,  those   arms 

once  curled 

About  thee,  what  we  knew  before, 
How   love  is  the  only  good   in   the 

world . 

Henceforth  be  loved  as  heart  can  love. 
Or  brain  devise,  or  hand  approve  ! 


20 


THE  FLIGHT   OF  THE  DUCHESS. 


Stand  up,  look  below, 

It  is  our  life  at  thy  feet  we  throw 

To  step  with  into  light  and  joy  ; 

Not  a  power  of  life  but  we  employ 

To  satisfy  thy  nature's  want ; 

Art    thou   the    tree    that    props    the 

plant, 
Or  the  climbing  plant  that  seeks  the 

tree  — 
Canst  thou  help  us,  must  we   help 

thee? 

If  any  two  creatures  grew  into  one, 
They  would  do  more  than  the  world 

has  done ; 
Though   each  apart   were   never   so 

weak, 
Ye  vainly  through  the  world  should 

seek 

For  the  knowledge  and  the  might 
Which  in  such  union  grew  their  right : 
So,  to  approach  at  least  that  end, 
And  blend,  —  as   much   as   may  be, 

blend 

Thee  with  us  or  us  with  thee,  — 
As  climbing  plant  or  propping  tree, 
Shall  some  one  deck  thee  over  and 

down, 
Up   and   about,  with   blossoms   and 

leaves  ? 
Fix  his  heart's  fruit  for  thy  garland 

crown, 
Cling  with  his  soul  as  the  gourd-vine 

cleaves, 

Die  on  thy  boughs  and  disappear 
While  not  a  leaf  of  thine  is  sere  ? 
Or  is  the  other  fate  in  store, 
And  art  thou  fitted  to  adore, 
To  give  thy  wondrous  self  away, 
And  take  a  stronger  nature's  sway  ? 
I  foresee  and  could  foretell 
Thy  future  portion,  sure  and  well : 
But  those  passionate  eyes  speak  true, 

speak  true, 

Let  them  say  what  thou  shalt  do  ! 
Only  be  sure  thy  daily  life, 
In  its  peace  or  in  its  strife, 
Never  shall  be  unobserved  ; 
We  pursue  thy  whole  career, 
And  hope  for  it,  or  doubt,  or  fear,  — 
Lo,    hast    thou    kept    thy    path    or 

swerved, 

We  are  beside  thee  in  all  thy  ways, 
With  our  blame,  with  our  praise, 
Our  shame  to  feel,  our  pride  to  show, 
Glad,  angry  —  but  indifferent,  no  ! 
Whether  it  be  thy  lot  to  go, 
For  the   good   of   us  all,   where  the 

haters  meet 
In  the  crowded  city's  horrible  street ; 


Or  thou  step  alone  through  the  morass 

Where  never  sound  yet  was 

Save  the  dry  quick  clap  of  the  stork's 

bill, 
For  the   air  is  still,  and  the  water 

still, 
When  the  blue  breast  of  the  dipping 

coot 

Dives  under,  and  all  is  mute. 
So  at  the  last  shall  come  old  age, 
Decrepit  as  befits  that  stage  ; 
How  else  wouldst  thou  retire  apart 
With  the  hoarded  memories  of  thy 

heart, 

And  gather  all  to  the  very  least 
Of  the  fragments  of  life's  earlier  feast, 
Let  fall  through  eagerness  to  find 
The  crowning  dainties  yet  behind  ? 
Ponder  on  the  entire  past 
Laid  together  thus  at  last, 
When  the  twilight  helps  to  fuse 
The  first  fresh  with  the  faded  hues, 
And  the  outline  of  the  whole, 
As  round  eve's  shades  their  frame- 
work roll, 

Grandly  fronts  for  once  thy  soul. 
And  then  as,  'mid  the  dark,  a  gleam 
Of  yet  another  morning  breaks, 
And   like    the   hand   which    ends    a 

dream, 

Death,  with  the  might  of   his   sun- 
beam, 
Touches    the    flesh    and    the    soul 

awakes, 
Then"— 

Ay,  then  indeed  something 
would  happen ! 
But     what?    For    here     her    voice 

changed  like  a  bird's; 
There  grew  more  of  the  music  and 

less  of  the  words; 
Had  Jacynth  only  been  by  me  to  clap 

pen 
To  paper  and  put  you  down  every 

syllable 

With  those  clever  clerkly  fingers, 
All  I've  forgotten  as  well  as  what 

lingers 
In  this  old  brain  of  mine  that's  but  ill 

able 

To  give  you  even  this  poor  version 
Of  the  speech  I  spoil,  as  it  were,  with 

stammering! 
—  More  fault  of  those  who  had  the 

hammering 

Of  prosody  into  me  and  syntax, 
And  did  it,  not  with  hobnails  but  tin- 
tacks! 
But  to  return  from  this  excursion,  — 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


•21 


Just,  do  you  mark,  when  the  song 
was  sweetest, 

The  peace  most  deep  and  the  charm 
completest, 

There  came,  shall  I  say,  a  snap  — 

And  the  chartn  vanished  ! 

And  my  sense  returned,  so  strangely 
banished, 

And,  starting  as  from  a  nap, 

I  knew  the  crone  was  bewitching  my 
lady, 

With  Jacynth  asleep;  and  but  one 
spring  made  I 

Down  from  the  casement,  round  to 
the  portal, 

Another  minute  and  I  had  entered, — 

When  the  door  opened,  and  more 
than  mortal 

Stood,  with  a  face  where  to  my  mind 
centred 

All  beauties  I  ever  saw  or  shall  see, 

The  Duchess  :  I  stopped  as  if  struck 
by  palsy. 

She  was  so  different,  happy  and  beau- 
tiful, 

I  felt  at  once  that  all  was  best, 

And  that  I  had  nothing  to  do,  for  the 
rest, 

But  wait  her  commands,  obey  and  be 
dutiful. 

Not  that,  in  fact,  there  was  any  com- 
manding ; 

I  saw  the  glory  of  her  eye, 

And  the  brow's  height  and  the 
breast's  expanding, 

And  I  was  hers  to  live  or  to  die. 

As  for  finding  what  she  wanted, 

You  know  God  Almighty  granted 

Such  little  signs  should  serve  wild 
creatures 

To  tell  one  another  all  their  desires, 

So  that  each  knows  what  his  friend 
requires, 

And  does  its  bidding  without  teach- 
ers. 

I  preceded  her  ;  the  crone 

Followed  silent  and  alone  ; 

I  spoke  to  her,  but  she  merely  jab- 
bered 

In  the  old  style  ;  both  her  eyes  had 
slunk 

Back  to  their  pits ;  her  stature 
shrunk  ; 

In  short,  the  soul  in  its  body  sunk 

Likr...;i  blade  sent  home  to  its  scab- 
bard. 

We  descended,  I  preceding  ; 

Crossed  the  court  with  nobody  heed- 
ing ; 


All  the  world  was  at  the  chase, 
The  court-yard  like  a  desert-place, 
The  stable  emptied  of  its  small  fry  ; 
I  saddled  myself  the  very  palfry 
I  remember  patting  while  it  carried 

her, 
The  day  she  arrived  and  the  Duke 

married  her. 
And,  do  you  know,  though  it  's  easy 

deceiving 
One's  self  in  such  matters,  I  can't  help 

believing 

The  lady  had  not  forgotten  it  either, 
And  knew  the  poor  devil  so  much 

beneath  her 
Would  have  been  only  too  glad,  for 

her  service, 
To  dance  on  hot  ploughshares  like  a 

Turk  dervise, 
But,  unable  to  pay  proper  duty  where 

owing  it, 
Was  reduced  to  that  pitiful  method 

of  showing  it. 

For  though,  the  moment  I  began  set- 
ting 
His  saddle  on  my  own  nag  of  Be- 

rold's  begetting 

(Not  that  I  meant  to  be  obtrusive), 
She  stopped  me,  while  his  rug  was 

shifting, 

By  a  single  rapid  finger's  lifting, 
And,  with  a  gesture  kind  but  conclu- 
sive, 

And  a  little  shake  of  the  head,  re- 
fused me,  — 

I  say,  although  she  never  used  me, 
Yet    when    she    was    mounted,    the 

gypsy  behind  her. 
And  I  ventured  to  remind  her, 
I  suppose  with  a  voice  of  less  steadi- 
ness 
Than  usual,  for  my  feeling  exceeded 

me, 
—  Something  to  the  effect  that  I  was 

in  readiness 
Whenever   God   should    please    she 

needed  me,  — 
Then,  do  you  know,  her  face  looked 

down  on  me 
With  a  look  that  placed  a  crown  on 

me, 
And  she  felt  in  her  bosom,  —  mark, 

her  bosom  — 
And,    as    a    flower-tree    drops     its 

blossom, 
Dropped  me  .  .  .ah!  had  it  been  a 

purse 
Of  silver,  my  friend,  or  gold  that's 

worse, 


22 


THE  FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


Why,  you  see,  as  soon  as  I  found  my- 
self 

So  understood,  —  that  a  true  heart  so 
may  gain 

Such  a  reward,  —  I  should  have  gone 
home  again, 

Kissed  Jacynth,  and  soberly  drowned 
myself ! 

It  was  a  little  plait  of  hair 

Such  as  friends  in  a  convent  make 

To  wear,  each  for  the  other's  sake,  — 

This,  see,  which  at  my  breast  I  wear, 

Ever  did  (rather  to  Jacynth's  grudg- 
ment), 

And  ever  shall  till  the  Day  of  Judg- 
ment. 

And  then,  —  and  then,  —  to  cut  short, 
—  this  is  idle, 

These  are  feelings  it  is  not  good  to 
foster,  — 

I  pushed  the  gate  wide,  she  shook  the 
bridle, 

And  the  palfrey  bounded,  —  and  so 
we  lost  her. 


XVI. 

When  the  liquor's  out  why  clink  the 
cannikin  ? 

I  did  think  to  describe  you  the  panic  in 

The  redoubtable  breast  of  our  master 
the  manikin, 

And  what  was  the  pitch  of  his  moth- 
er's yellowness, 

How  she  turned  as  a  shark  to  snap 
the  spare-rib 

Clean  off,  sailors  say,  from  a  pearl- 
diving  Carib, 

When  she  heard,  what  she  called  the 
flight  of  the  feloness 

—  But  it  seems  such  child's  play, 

What  they  said  and  did  with  the  lady 
away ! 

And  to  dance  on,  when  we've  lost  the 
music, 

Always  made  me  —  and  no  doubt 
makes  you  —  sick. 

Nay,  to  my  mind,  the  world's  face 
looked  so  stern 

As  that  sweet  form  disappeared 
through  the  postern, 

She  that  kept  it  in  constant  good- 
humor, 

It  ought  to  have  stopped;  there 
seemed  nothing  to  do  more. 

But  the  world  thought  otherwise  and 
went  on, 

And  my  head's  one  that  its  spite  was 
spent  on  : 


Thirty  years  are  fled  since  that  morn- 
ing, 

And  with  them  all  my  head's  adorn- 
ing. 

Nor  did  the  old  Duchess  die  outright, 

As  you  expect,  of  suppressed  spite, 

The  natural  end  of  every  adder 

Not  suffered  to  empty  its  poison- 
bladder  : 

But  she  and  her  son  agreed,  I  take 
it, 

That  no  one  should  touch  on  the  story 
to  wake  it, 

For  the  wound  in  the  Duke's  pride 
rankled  fiery  ; 

So,  they  made  no  search  and  small 
inquiry : 

And  when  fresh  gypsies  have  paid  us 
a  visit,  I've 

Noticed  the  couple  were  never  in- 
quisitive, 

But  told  them  they're  folks  the  Duke 
don't  want  here, 

And  bade  them  make  haste  and  cross 
the  frontier. 

Brief,  the  Duchess  was  gone  and  the 
Duke  was  glad  of  it, 

And  the  old  one  was  in  the  young 
one's  stead, 

And  took,  in  her  place,  the  household's 
head, 

And  a  blessed  time  the  household  had 
of  it! 

And  were  I  not,  as  a  man  may  say, 
cautious 

How  I  trench,  more  than  needs,  on 
the  nauseous, 

I  could  favor  you  with  sundry  touches 

Of  the  paint-smutches  with  which  the 
Duchess 

Heightened  the  mellowness  of  her 
cheek's  yellowness 

(To  get  on  faster)  until  at  last  her 

Cheek  grew  to  be  one  master-plaster 

Of  mucus  and  fucus  from  mere  use  of 
ceruse  : 

In  short,  she  grew  from  scalp  to 
udder 

Just  the  object  to  make  you  shudder. 


You're  my  friend  — 

What  a  "thing  friendship  is,  world 
without  end  ! 

How  it  gives  the  heart  and  soul  a  stir- 
up 

As  if  somebody  broached  you  a  glori- 
ous runlet, 


THE   FLIGHT   OF   THE  DUCHESS. 


And  poured  out,  all  lovelily,  spark- 
lingly,  sunlit, 

Our  green  Moldavia,  the  streaky 
sirup, 

Cotnar  as  old  as  the  time  of  the 
Druids  — 

Friendship  may  match  with  that  mon- 
arch of  fluids  ; 

Each  supples  a  dry  brain,  fills  you  its 
ins-and-outs, 

Gives  yonr  life's  hour-glass  a  shake 
when  the  thin  sand  doubts 

"Whether  to  run  on  or  stop  short,  and 
guarantees 

Age  is  not  all  made  of  stark  sloth  and 
arrant  ease. 

I  have  seen  my  little  lady  once  more, 

Jacynth,  the  gypsy,  Berold,  and  the 
rest  of  it, 

For  to  me  spoke  the  Duke,  as  I  told 
you  before  ; 

I  always  wanted  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  it : 

And  now  it  is  made  —  why,  my  heart's 
blood,  that  went  trickle, 

Trickle,  but  anon,  in  such  muddy 
driblets, 

Is  pumped  up  brisk  now,  through  the 
main  ventricle, 

And  genially  floats  me  about  the  gib- 
lets. 

I'll  tell  you  what  I  intend  to  do  : 

I  must  see  this  fellow  his  sad  life 
through  — 

He  is  our  Duke,  after  all, 

And  I,  as  he  says,  but  a  serf  and  thrall. 

My  father  was  born  here,  and  I  in- 
herit 

His  fame,  a  chain  he  bound  his  son 
with  ; 

Could  1  pay  in  a  lump  I  should  pre- 
fer it, 

But  there's  no  mine  to  blow  up  and 
get  done  with  : 

So,  I  must  stay  till  the  end  of  the 
chapter. 

For,  as  to  our  middle-age-manners- 
adapter, 

Be  it  a  thing  to  be  glad  on  or  sorry  on, 

Some  day  or  other,  his  head  in  a  mo- 
rion 

And  breast  in  a  hauberk,  his  heels 
he'll  kick  up, 

Slain  by  an  onslaught  fierce  of  hic- 
cup. 

And  then,  when  red  doth  the  sword 
of  our  Duke  rust, 

And  its  leathern  sheath  lie  o'ergrovvn 
with  a  b1  ue  crust, 


Then  I  shall  scrape  together  my  earn- 
ings ; 

For,  you  see,  in  the  churchyard  Ja- 
cynth reposes, 

And  our  children  all  went  the  way  of 
the  roses  : 

It's  a  long  lane  that  knows  no  turn- 
ings. 

One  needs  but  little  tackle  to  travel 
in ; 

So,  just  one  stout  cloak  shall  I  indue  : 

And  for  a  staff,  what  beats  the  iave» 
lin 

"With  which  his  boars  my  father 
pinned  you? 

And  then,  for  a  purpose  you  shall 
hear  presently, 

Taking  some  Cotnar,  a  tight  plump 
skinful, 

I  shall  go  journeying,  who  but  I, 
pleasantly ! 

Sorrow  is  vain  and  despondency  sin- 
ful. 

What's  a  man's  age  ?  He  must  hurry 
more,  that's  all ; 

Cram  in  a  day,  what  his  youth  took  a 
year  to  hold : 

When  we  mind  labor,  then  only, 
we're  too  old  — 

What  age  had  Methusalem  when  he 
begat  Saul  ? 

And  at  last,  as  its  haven  some  buffeted 
ship  sees 

(Come  all  the  way  from  the  north- 
parts  with  sperm  oil), 

I  hope  to  get  safely  out  of  the  tur- 
moil 

And  arrive  one  day  at  the  land  of  the 

fypsies, 
nd  my  lady,  or  hear  the  last 
news  of  her 

From  some  old  thief  and  son  of  Luci- 
fer, 

His  forehead  chapleted  green  with 
wreathy  hop, 

Sunburned  all  over  like  an  JElhiop. 

And  when  my  Cotnar  begins  to  oper- 
ate 

And  the  tongue  of  the  rogue  to  run  at 
a  proper  rate, 

And  our  wine-skin,  tight  once,  shows 
each  flaccid  dent, 

I  shall  drop  in  with  —  as  if  by  acci- 
dent— 

"  You  never  knew,  then,  how  it  all 
ended, 

What  fortune  good  or  bad  attended 

The  little  lady  your  Queen  be- 
friended ?  " 


24 


SONG  FROM    "P1PPA  PASSES.' 


—  And  when  that's  told  me,  what's 

remaining  ? 

This  world's  too  hard  for  my  explain- 
ing. 

The  same  wise  judge  of  matters  equine 

Who  still  preferred  some  slim  four- 
year-old 

To  the  big-boned  stock  of  mighty  Be- 
rold, 

And,  for  strong  Cotnar,  drank  French 
weak  wine, 

He  also  must  be  such  a  lady's  scorner! 

Smooth  Jacob  still  robs  homely  Esau : 

Now  up,  now  down,  the  world's  one 
seesaw. 

—  So,  I  shall  find  out  some  snug  cor- 

ner 

Under  a  hedge,  like  Orson  the  wood- 
knight, 

Turn  myself  round  and  bid  the  world 
good-night, 

And  sleep  a  sound  sleep  till  the  trum- 
pet's blowing 

"Wakes  me  (unless  priests  cheat  us 
laymen) 

To  a  world  where  will  be  no  further 
throwing 

Pearls  before  swine  that  can't  value 
them.  Amen ! 


SONG  FROM  "  PTPPA  PASSES.' 

THE  year's  at  the  spring, 
And  day's  at  the  morn  ; 
Morning's  at  seven  ; 
The  hill-side's  dew-pearled  ; 
The  lark's  on  the  wing  ; 
The  snail's  on  the  thorn  ; 
God's  in  his  heaven  — 
All's  right  with  the  world. 


"HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  THE 
GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GHENT 
TO  AIX." 

[16-.] 


I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and 

I  galloped,  Dirck   galloped,  we  gal- 
loped all  three  ; 


"  Good  speed  !  "   cried  the  watch,  as 

the  gate-bolts  undrew ; 
"  Speed  !  "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  gal- 
loping through  ; 
Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights 

sank  to  rest, 
And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped 

abreast. 

ii. 
Not  a  word  to  each  other  ;  we  kept  the 

great  pace 
Neck  by  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never 

changing  oui  place  ; 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its 

girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup,  and  set 

the  pique  right, 
Rebuckled  the  cheek-strap,   chained 

slacker  the  bit, 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Roland  a 

whit. 

in. 
'Twas  moonset  at  starting  ;  but,  while 

we  drew  near 
Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew,  and  twilight 

dawned  clear ; 
At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came 

out  to  see  ; 
At  Duffeld,  'twas  morning  as  plain  as 

could  be  ; 
And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we 

heard  the  half-chime, 
So,  Joris  broke  silence  with,   "  Yet 

there  is  time  !  " 


At  Aershot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden 
the  sun, 

And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black 
every  one, 

To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  gallop- 
ing past ; 

And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper  Roland 
at  last, 

"With  resolute  shoulders,  each  butting 
away 

The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  head- 
land its  spray : 


And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one 

sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked 

out  on  his  track  ; 
And  one  eye's  black  intelligence, — 

ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  his  own 

master,  askance ! 


"  Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear. 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my  horse  without  peer."  —  Page  25. 


SONG  FROM   "PARACELSUS.' 


And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes 
which  aye  and  anon 

His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  gal- 
loping on. 


By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned  ;  and  cried 

Joris,  "  Stay  spur  ! 
Your    Roos    galloped    bravely,    the 

fault's  not  in  her, 
We'll  remember   at  Aix"  — for  one 

heard  the  quick  wheeze 
Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck 


and  staggering  knees, 
lil,  and  horrible 


heave  of 


And  sunk  tai 
the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shud- 
dered and  sank. 


So,  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and 
I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud 
in  the  sky ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  piti- 
less laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright 
stubble  like  chaff ; 

Till  over  by  Dalheni  a  dome-spire 
sprang  white, 

And  "Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "for 
Aix  is  iu  sight ! 


"  How  they'll  greet  us  !  "  —  and  all  in 
a  moment  his  roan 

Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead 
as  a  stone  ; 

And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the 
whole  weight 

Of  the  news  which  alone  could  save 
Aix  from  her  fate, 

With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of 
blood  to  the  brim, 

And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye- 
sockets'  rim. 


Then  I  cast  loose  my  buffcoat,  each 

holster  let  fall, 
Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go 

belt  and  all, 
Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted 

his  ear, 
Called  my  Roland  his  pet-name,  my 

horse  without  peer ; 


Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang, 
any  noise,  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  gal- 
loped and  stood. 


And  all  I  remember  is,  friends  flock- 
ing round 

As  I  sat  with  his  head  'twixt  my 
knees  on  the  ground  ; 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this 
Roland  of  mine, 

As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last 
measure  of  wine, 

Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  com- 
mon consent) 

Was  no  more  than  his  due  who 
brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 


SONG  FROM  "PARACELSUS." 


HEAP  cassia,  sandal-buds,  and  stripes 

Of  labdanum,  and  aloe-balls, 
Smeared   with  dull  nard  an  Indian 

wipes 
From  out  her  hair :    such  balsam 

falls 

Down     seaside     mountain     pedes- 
tals, 
From  tree-tops  where  tired  winds  are 

fain, 
Spent   with   the   vast   and    howling 

main, 
To  treasure  half  their  island  gain. 


And  strew  faint  sweetness  from  some 

old 

Egyptian's  fine  worm-eaten  shroud 
Which  breaks  to  dust  when  once  un- 
rolled ; 

Or  shredded  perfume,  like  a  cloud 

From  closet  long  to  quiet  vowed, 

With    mothed    and    dropping    arras 

hung, 
Mouldering    her     lute     and     books 

among, 

As  when  a    queen,  long  dead,  was 
young. 


26 


THROUGH  THE  METJDJA   TO  ABD-EL-KADR. 


THROUGH      THE      METIDJA 
TO   ABD-EL-KADR. 

[1842.] 


AS  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

With  a  full  heart  for  my  guide, 

So  its  tide  rocks  my  side, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

That,  as  I  were  double-eyed, 

He,  in  whom  our  Tribes  confide, 

Is  descried,  ways  untried 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 


As  I  ride,  as  I  ride 

To  our  Chief  and  his  Allied, 

"Who  dares  chide  my  heart's  pride 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ? 

Or  are  witnesses  denied  — 

Through  the  desert  waste  and  wide 

Do  I  glide  unespied 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ? 


As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

When  an  inner  voice  has  cried, 

The  sands  slide,  nor  abide 

(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 

O'er  each  visioned  homicide 

That  came  vaunting  (has  he  lied  ?) 

To  reside  —  where  he  died, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride. 


As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Ne'er  has  spur  my  swift  horse  plied, 

Yet  his  hide,  streaked  and  pied, 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Shows  where  sweat  has  sprung  and 

dried, 

—  Zebra-footed,  ostrich-thighed — 
How  has  vied  stride  with  stride 
As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ! 


As  I  ride,  as  I  ride, 

Could  I  loose  what  Fate  has  tied, 

Ere  I  pride,  she  should  hide 

(As  I  ride,  as  I  ride) 

All  that's  meant  me  —  satisfied 

When  the  Prophet  and  the  Bride 

Stop  veins  I'd  have  subside 

As  I  ride,  as  I  ride  ! 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH 
CAMP. 


You  know,  we  French  stormed  Rat- 
isbon  : 

A  mile  or  so  away 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day; 
With    neck    out -thrust,   you    fancy 
how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 


Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery  smokes  there 
flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 


Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect  — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his 
breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 


"  Well,"    cried    he,    "  Emperor,    by 
God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched    him !  "     The    chief's    eye 
flashed  :  his  plans 

Soared  iip  again  like  fire. 


The  chief's  eye  flashed  ;  but  presently 
Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 

A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 
When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes 


IN  A   GONDOLA. 


'  You're    wounded  !  "  —  "  Nay,"    the 

soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said, 
Tin  killed,  Sire!"    And  his  chief 

beside, 
Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 


THE  LOST  LEADER. 


JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 
Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick   in  his 

coat  — 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune 

bereft  us, 
Lost  all    the   others,    she   lets   us 

devote  ; 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled 

him  out  silver, 
So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little 

allowed  : 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his 

service ! 
Rags  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart 

had  been  proud ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed 

him,  honored  him, 
Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent 

eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught 

his  clear  accents, 
Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and 

to  die  ! 
Shakspeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for 

us. 
Burns,    SI  elley.   were    with   us, — 

they  \vatcli  froc1  their  graves  ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and 

the  freemen, 

He  alone  sinks    o  the  rear  and  the 
slaves ! 

n. 
We    shall    march    prospering,  —  not 

through  his  presence  ; 
Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from 

his  lyre  ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  he  boasts 

his  quiescence, 
Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest 

bade  aspire  ; 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one 

lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more 
footpath  untrod, 


One  more  devil's-triumph  and  sorrow 

for  angels, 
One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more 

insult  to  God  ! 
Life's  night   begins :   let   him  never 

come  back  to  us  ! 
There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation, 

and  pain, 

Forced  praise  on  pur  part—  the  glim- 
mer of  twilight, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again! 
Best  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him 

—  strike  gallantly, 
Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his 

own ; 

Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowl- 
edge and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by 
the  throne  ! 


IN  A  GONDOLA. 

He  sings. 

I  SEXD  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my 

heart 

In  this  my  singing. 
For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea 

bears  part ; 

The  very  night  is  clinging 
Closer  to  Venice'  streets  to  leave  one 

space 

Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its 
dwelling-place. 


She  s})eaks. 

Say  after  me,  and  try  to  say 
My  very  words,  as  if  each  word 
Came  from  you  of  your  own  accord, 
In   your   own   voice,    in    your   own 

way: 
"  This  woman's  heart  and  soul  and 

brain 

Are  mine  as  much  as  this  gold  chain 
She  bids  me  wear  ;  which  "  (say  again) 
"  I  choose  to  make  by  cherishing 
A  precious  thing,  or  choose  to  fling 
Over  the  boat- side,  ring  by  ring." 
And  yet  once  more  say  ...  no  word 

more  ! 
Since  words   are  only  words.    Give 

o'er ! 


28 


IN  A    GONDOLA. 


Unless  you  call  me,  all  the  same, 

Familiarly  by  my  pet  name, 

"Which  if  the  Three  should  hear  you 

call, 

And  me  reply  to,  would  proclaim 
At  once  our  secret  to  them  all. 
Ask  of  me,  too,  command  me,  blame  — 
Do,  break  down  the  partition-wall 
'Twixt  us,  the  daylight  world  beholds 
Curtained  in  dusk  and  splendid  folds  ! 
What's  left  but  — all  of  me  to  take  ? 
I  am  the  Three's  :  prevent  them,  slake 
Your  thirst !     'Tis  said,  the  Arab  sage, 
In  practising  with  gems,  can  loose 
Their  subtle  spirit  in  his  cruce 
And  leave  but  ashes  :  so,  sweet  mage, 
Leave  them  my  ashes  when  thy  use 
Sucks  out  my  soul,  thy  heritage  ! 

He  sings. 


Past  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past ! 

What's  that  poor  Agnese  doing 
"Where  they  make  the  shutters  fast  ? 

Gray  Zanobi's  just  a-wooing 
To  his  couch  the  purchased  bride  : 

Past  we  glide  ! 


Pa«t  we  glide,  and  past,  and  past ! 

"Why's  the  Pucci  Palace  flaring 
Like  a  beacon  to  the  blast  ? 

Guests  by  hundreds,  not  one  caring 
If  the  dear  host's  neck  were  wried  : 

Past  we  glide ! 

She  sings. 


The  moth's  kiss,  first ! 

Kiss  me  as  if  you  made  believe 

You  were  not  sure,  this  eve, 

How  my  face,  your  flower,  had  pursed 

Its  petals  up  ;  so,  here  and  there 

You  brush  it,  till  I  grow  aware 

Who  vants  me,  and  wide  ope  I  burst. 


The  bee's  kiss,  now  ! 
Kiss  me  as  if  you  entered  gay 
My  heart  at  some  noonday, 
A  bud  that  dares  not  disallow 
The  claim,  so  all  is  rendered  up, 
And  passively  its  shattered  cup 
Over  your  head  to  sleep  I  bow. 


He  sings. 


What  are  we  two  ? 

I  am  a  Jew, 

And  carry  thee,  farther  than  friends 

can  pursue, 
To  a  feast  of  our  tribe: 
Where  they  need  thee  to  bribe 
The  Devil  that  blasts  them  unless  he 

imbibe 
Thy  .  .  .  Scatter  the  vision  forever ! 

And  now, 
As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  ! 


n. 

Say  again,  what  we  are  ? 

The  sprite  of  a  star, 

I  lure  thee  above  where  the  destinies 

bar 

My  plumes  their  full  play 
Till  a  ruddier  ray 
Than  my  pale  one  announce  there  is 

withering  away 
Some  .  .  .  Scatter  the  vision  forever ! 

And  now, 
As  of  old,  I  am  I,  thou  art  thou  ! 


He  muses. 

Oh!   which   were    best,    to    roam    or 

rest  ? 

The  land's  lap  or  the  water's  breast? 
To  sleep  on  yellow  millet-sheaves, 
Or  swim  in  lucid  shallows,  just 
Eluding  water-lily  leaves, 
An  inch  from  Death's  black  fingers. 

thrust 

To  lock  you,  whom  release  he  must; 
Which    life   were   best   on    summer 

eves  ? 


He  speaks,  musing. 

Lie  back;  could  thought  of  mine  im- 
prove you  ? 

From  this  shoulder  let  there  spring 
A  wing;  from  this,  another  wing; 
Wings,  not  legs  and  feet,  shall  move 

you ! 
Snow-white    must    they    spring,    to 

blend 

With  your  flesh,  but  I  intend 
They  shall  deepen  to  the  end, 
Broader,  into  burning  gold, 
Till  'iotli  wings  crescent-wise  infold 


IN  A    GONDOLA. 


29 


Your  perfect  self,  from   'neath  your 

feet 
To  o'er  your  head,  where,  lo,  they 

meet 

As  if  a  million  sword-blades  hurled 
Defiance  from  you  to  the  world  ! 

Rescue  me  thou,  the  only  real ! 
And  scare  away  this  mad  ideal 
That  came,  nor  motions  to  depart ! 
Thanks  !    Now,  stay  ever  as  thou  art! 


Still  he  muses. 


What  if  the  Three  should  catch  at 

last 

Thy  serenader  ?    While  there's  cast 
Paul's  cloak  about  my  head,  and  fast 
Gian  pinions  me,  Himself  has  past 
His  stylet  through  my  back  ;  I  reel ; 
And  .* .  .  is  it  thou  Tfeel  ? 


ir. 
They   trail   me,  these   three  godless 

knaves, 
Past  every  church  that  saints   and 

saves, 
Nor   stop   till,   where   the   cold    sea 

raves 

By  Lido's  wet  accursed  graves, 
They    scoop    mine,    roll    me    to    its 

brink, 
And  ...  on  thy  breast  I  sink  ! 


She  replies,  musing. 

Dip   your   arm    o'er   the    boat-side, 

elbow-deep, 
As  I  do  :  thus  :  were  death  so  unlike 

sleep. 
Caught  this  way?    Death's  to   fear 

from  flame  or  steel, 
Or  poison  doubtless  ;  but  from  water 

—  feel! 
Go  find  the  bottom  !    Would  you  stay 

me  ?    There  ! 

Now  pluck  a  great  blade  of  that  rib- 
bon-grass 
To  plait  in  where  the  foolish  jewel 

was, 
I  flung  away  :  since  you  have  praised 

my  hair, 
'Tis  proper  to  be  chcice  in  what   I 

wear. 


He  speaks. 

Row  home  ?  must  we  row  home  ?  Too 

surely 

Know  I  where  its  front's  demurely 
Over  the  Guidecca  piled  ; 
Window  just  with  window  mating, 
Door  on  door  exactly  waiting, 
All's  the  set  face  of  a  child  : 
But  behind  it,  where's  a  trace 
Of  the  staidness  and  reserve, 
And  formal  lines  without  a  curve, 
In  the  same  child's  playing-face  ? 
No  two  windows  look  one  way 
O'er  the  small  sea-water  thread 
Below  them.    Ah,  the  autumn  day 
I,  passing,  saw  you  overhead  ! 
First,  out  a  cloud  of  curtain  blew, 
Then   a  sweet   cry,   and   last   came 

you  — 

To  catch  your  lory  that  must  needs 
Escape  just  then,  of  all  times  then, 
To  peck  a  tall  plant's  fleecy  seeds 
And  make  me  happiest  of  men. 
I  scarce  could   breathe   to  see  you 

reach 

So  far  back  o'er  the  balcony, 
To  catch    him    ere    he    climbed    too 

high 

Above  you  in  the  Smyrna  peach, 
That  quick  the  round  smooth  cord  of 

gold, 

This  coiled  hair  on  your  head,  un- 
rolled, 

Fell  down  you  like  a  gorgeous  snake 
The  Roman  girls  were  wont,  of  old, 
When  Rome  there  was,  for  coolness' 

sake 

To  let  lie  curling  o'er  their  bosoms 
Dear  lory,  may  his  beak  retain 
Ever  its  delicate  rose  stain, 
As  if  the  wounded  lotus-blossoms 
Had    marked    their   thief   to    know 

again ! 

Stay  longer  yet,  for  others'  sake 
Than  mine  !    What  should  your  cham- 
ber do  ? 

—  With  all  its  rarities  that  ache 
In  silence  while  day  lasts,  but  wake 
At  night-time  and  their  life  renew, 
Suspended  just  to  pleasure  you 
Who  brought  against  their  will  to 

gether 
These  objects,  and,  while  day  lasts, 

weave 

Around  them  such  a  magic  tether 
That  dumb  they  look :    your    harp, 
believe, 


30 


A  LOVERS'    QUARREL. 


With  all  the  sensitive  tight  strings 
Which  dare  not  speak,  now  to  itself 
Breathes  slumberously,    as    if    some 

elf 

Went  in  and  out  the  chords,  his  wings 
Make     murmur,     wheresoe'er     they 

graze, 

As  an  angel  may,  between  the  maze 
Of  midnight  palace-pillars,  on 
And  on,  to  sow  God's  plagues,  have 

gone 

Through  guilty  glorious  Babylon. 
And  while  such  murmurs  flow,  the 

nymph 
Bends    o'er  the    harp- top    from  her 

shell 

As  the  dry  limpet  for  the  lymph 
Come  with  a  tune  he  knows  so  well. 
And  how  your  statues'  hearts  must 

swell ! 

And  how  your  pictures  must  descend 
To  see  each  other,  friend  with  friend  ! 
Oh,  could  you  take  them  by  surprise, 
You'd  find  Schidone's  eager  Duke 
Doing  the  quaintest  courtesies 
To  that  prim    saint    by  Haste-thee- 

Luke ! 

And,  deeper  into  her  rock  den, 
Bold  Castelfranco's  Magdalen 
You'd  find  retreated  from  the  ken 
Of  that  robed  counsel-keeping  Ser  — 
As  if  the  Tizian  thinks  of  her, 
And  is  not,  rather,  gravely  bent 
On  seeing  for  himself  what  toys 
Are  these,  his  progeny  invent, 
What  litter  now  the  board  employs 
Whereon  he  signed  a  document 
That  got  him  murdered !    Each  en- 
joys 

Its  night  so  well,  you  cannot  break 
The  sport  up  :  so,  indeed  must  make 
More  stay  with  me,  for  others'  sake. 


fthe  speaks. 


To-morrow,  if  a  harp-string,  say, 
Is  used  to  tie  the  jasmine  back 
That  overfloods  my  room  with  sweets, 
Contrive  your  Zorzi  somehow  meets 
My  Zanze  !    If  the  ribbon's  black, 
The  Three  are  watching :  keep  away ! 


Your  gondola  —  let  Zorzi  wreathe 
A  mesh  of  water-weeds  about 
Its  prow,  as  if  he  unaware 


Had  struck  some  quay  or  bridge-foot 

stair ! 

That  I  may  throw  a  paper  out 
As  you  and  he  go  underneath. 

There's  Zanze's  vigilant  taper ;  safe 

are  we. 
Only  one  minute  more  to-night  with 

me? 
Resume  your  past  self   of   a   month 

ago! 
Be  you  the   bashful   gallant,   I  will 

be 
The  lady  with  the  colder  breast  than 

snow. 
Now  bow  you,  as  becomes,  nor  tcuch 

my  hand 
More  than  I  touch  yours  when  I  step 

to  land, 
And  say,  "  All  thanks,  Siora !  "  — 

Heart  to  heart 
And  lips  to  lips  !    Yet  once  more,  ere 

we  part, 
Clasp  me  and  make  me  thine,  as  mine 

thou  art ! 


He  is  surprised,  and  stabbed. 

It  was  ordained  to  be  so,  sweet !  — 
and  best 

Comes  now,  beneath  thine  eyes,  upon 
thy  breast. 

Still  kiss  me  !  Care  not  for  the  cow- 
ards !  Care 

Onlv  to  put  aside  thy  beauteous  hair 

My  blood  will  hurt !  The  Three,  I  do 
not  scorn, 

To  death,  because  they  never  lived: 
but  I 

Have  lived  indeed,  and  so  —  (yet  one 
more  kiss)  —  can  die  ! 


A   LOVERS'   QUARREL. 


OH,  what  a  dawn  of  day  ! 

How  the  March  sun  feels  like  May ! 

All  is  blue  again 

After  last  night's  rain, 
And  the  South  dries  the  hawthorn 
spray. 

Only,  my  Love's  away  ! 
I'd  as  lief  "that  the  blue  were  gray 


Jt 


A   LOVERS'    QUARREL. 


31 


Runnels,  which  rillets  swell, 
Must  be  dancing  down  the  dell, 

With  a  foaming  head 

On  the  beryl  bed 
Paven  smooth  as  a  hermit's  cell : 

Each  with  a  tale  to  tell, 
Could  my  love  but  attend  as  well. 


Dearest,  three  months  ago, 
"When    we    lived    blocked    up    with 
snow,  — 

"When  the  wind  would  edge 

In  and  in  his  wedge, 
In,  as  far  as  the  point  could  go  — 

Not  to  our  ingle,  though, 
Where  we  loved  each  the  other  so  ! 


Laughs  with  so  little  cause  ! 
"We  devised  games  out  of  straws. 

"We  would  try  and  trace 

One  another's  face 
In  the  ash,  as  an  artist  draws  ; 

Free  on  each  other's  flaws, 
How  we  chattered  like  two  church 
daws ! 


What's  in  the  "  Times  "  ?  —  a  scold 
At  the  Emperor  deep  and  cold; 

He  has  taken  a  bride 

To  his  grewsome  side, 
That's  as  fair  as  himself  is  bold  : 

There  they  sit  ermine-stoled, 
And  she  powders  her  hair  with  gold. 


Fancy  the  Pampas'  sheen  ! 
Miles  and  miles  of  gold  and  green 

"Where  the  sunflowers  blow 

In  a  solid  glow, 

And    to    break    now    and    then    the 
screen  — 

Black  neck  and  eyeballs  keen, 
Up  a  wild  horse  leaps  between  ! 

vn. 

Try,  will  our  table  turn  ? 
Lay  your  hands  there  light,  and  yearn 

Till  the  yearning  slips 
_  Through  the  finger-tips 
In  a  fire  which  a  few  discern, 

And  a  very  few  feel  burn,- 
And   the   rest,   they   may   live   and 
learn  ! 


Then  we  would  up  and  pace, 

For  a  change,  about  the  place, 
Each  with  arm  o'er  neck  : 
'T  is  our  quarter-deck, 

We  are  seamen  in  woeful  case. 
Help  in  the  ocean-space  ! 

Or,  if  no  help,  we'll  embrace. 


See,  how  she  looks  now,  dressed 
In  a  sledging-cap  and  vest ! 

'T  is  a  huge  fur  cloak  — 

Like  a  reindeer's  roke 
Falls  the  lappet  along  the  breast : 

Sleeves  for  her  arts  to  rest, 
Or  to  hang,  as  my  Love  likes  best. 


Teach  me  to  flirt  a  fan 

As  the  Spanish  ladies  can, 
Or  I  tint  your  lip 
With  a  burnt  stick's  tip 

And  you  turn  into  such  a  man  ! 
Just  the  two  s 

Half  the  bill  of  f 


pots  that  span 

;lie  young  male  swan. 


Dearest,  three  months  ago 
When  the  mesmerizer  Snow 

With  his  hand's  first  sweep 

Put  the  earth  to  sleep 
'Twas  a  time  when  the  heart  could 
show 

All  —  how  was  earth  to  know, 
'Neath  the  mute  hand's  to-and-fro  ? 


XII. 

Dearest,  three  months  ago 
When  we  loved  each  other  so, 

Lived  and  loved  the  same 

Till  an  evening  came 
When  a  shaft  from  the  Devil's  bow 

Pierced  to  our  ingle-glow. 
And  the  friends  were  friend  and  foe ! 


xiit. 

Not  from  the  heart  beneath  — 
'Twas  a  bubble  born  of  breath, 

Neither  sneer  nor  vaunt, 

Nor  reproach  nor  taunt. 
See  a  word,  how  it  severeth  ! 

Oh,  power  of  life  and  death 
In  the  tongue,  as  the  Preacher  saith  I 


32 


EARTH'S   IMMORTALITIES. 


Woman,  and  will  you  cast 
For  a  word,  quite  off  at  last 

Me,  your  osvn,  your  You, — 

Since,  as  truth  is  true, 
I  was  You  all  the  happy  past  — 

Me  do  you  leave  aghast 
With  the  memories  We  amassed  ? 


Love,  if  you  knew  the  light 
That  your  soul  casts  in  my  sight, 

Ho\v  I  look  to  you 

For  the  pure  and  true, 
And  the  beauteous  and  the  right,  — 

Bear  with  a  moment's  spite 
When  a  mere  mote  threats  the  white! 


What  of  a  hasty  word  ? 

Is  the  fleshly  heart  not  stirred 
By  a  worm's  pin-prick 
Where  its  roots  are  quick  ? 

See  the  eye,  by  a  fly's-foot  blurred  — 
Ear,  when  a  straw  is  heard 

Scratch  the  brain's  coat  of  curd  ! 


Foul  be  the  world  or  fair 

More  or  less,  how  can  I  care  ? 
'Tis  the  world  the  same 
For  my  praise  or  blame, 

And  endurance  is  easy  there. 
Wrong  in  the  one  thing  rare  — 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  bear  ! 


Here's  the  spring  back  or  close, 
When  the  almond-blossom  blows  ; 

We  shall  have  the  word 

In  a  minor  third 
There  is  none  but  the  cuckoo  knows  : 

Heaps  of  the  guelder-rose  ! 
I  must  bear  with  it,  I  suppose. 


Could  but  November  come, 
Were  the  noisy  birds  struck  dumb 

At  the  warning  slash 

Of  his  driver's-lash  — 
I  would  laugh  like  the  valiant  Thumb 

Facing  the  castle  glum 
And  the  giant's  fee-faw-fum  ! 


Then,  were  the  world  well  stripped 
Of  the  gear  wherein  equipped 

We  can  stand  apart, 

Heart  dispense  with  heart 
In    the    sun,    with    the    flowers   un- 
nipped,  — 

Oh,  the  world's  hangings  ripped, 
We  were  both  in  a  bare-walled  crypt ! 


Each  in  the  crypt  would  cry, 

"  But  one  freezes  here  !  and  why? 
When  a  heart,  as  chill, 
At  my  own  would  thrill 

Back  to  life,  and  its  fires  out-fly  ? 
Heart,  shall  we  live  or  die  ? 

The  rest  .  .  .  settle  by  and  by  !  " 


So,  she'd  efface  the  score, 
And  forgive  me  as  before. 

It  is  twelve  o'clock: 

I  shall  hear  her  knock 
In  the  worst  of  a  storm's  uproar: 

I  shall  pull  her  through  the  door, 
I  shall  have  her  for  evermore  ! 


EARTH'S   IMMORTALITIES. 


SEE,  as  the  prettiest  graves  will  do  in 

time, 
Our  poet's  wants  the  freshness  of  its 

prime ; 
Spite  of  the  sexton's  browsing  horse, 

the  sods 
Have  struggled  through  its  binding 

osier  rods; 
Headstone    and    half-sunk    footstone 

lean  awry, 
Wanting  the  brick- work  promised  by 

and  by; 
How  the  minute  gray  lichens,  plat* 

o'er  plate, 
Have    softened    down    the    crisp-cut 

name  and  date  ! 


So,  the  year's  done  with  ! 

(Love  me  forever .') 
All  March  begun  with, 

April's  endeavor ; 


The  Last  Ride  together.—  Page  33. 


THE  LAST  RIDE   TOGETHER. 


33 


May-wreaths  that  bound  me 
June  needs  must  sever; 

Now  snows  fall  round  me, 
Quenching  June's  fever  — 
(Love  me  forever!) 


THE  LAST  RIDE  TOGETHER. 


I  SAID —  Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all,  my  life  seemed  meant  for, 

fails, 
Since  this  was  written  and  needs 

must  be  — 

My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness  ! 
Take  back  the    hope  you    gave,  —  I 

claim 

Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
—  And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not 

blame, 
Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride 

with  me. 


My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers  ; 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where    pride 

demurs 

When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 
With  life  or  death  in  the  balance: 

right ! 

The  blood  replenished  me  again  ; 
My  last   thought   was   at   least   not 

vain  : 

I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side, 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
So,  one  day  more  am  I  deified. 
Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end 

to-night  ? 


Hush!  if  you  saw  some  western  cloud 
All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 
By  many  benedictions  —  sun's 
And   moon's   and    evening-star's   at 

once  — 
And   so,  you,  looking  and  loving 

best, 

Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,   sunset,   moonrise,    star-shine 

too. 


Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was 

here  !  — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered  —  joy  and 

fear 
Thus   lay   she   a   moment   on  my 

breast. 

IV. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.  My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped 

scroll 
Freshening    and    fluttering    in    the 

wind. 

Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 
What   need  to   strive  with   a  life 

awry  ? 

Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me  ?  just  as 

well 

She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst 

befell  ? 
And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 


Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds  ? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  suc- 
ceeds ? 

We  rode;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew, 
Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 
As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either 

side. 

I  thought,  —  All  labor,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hope- 
ful past ! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me  :  here 
we  ride. 

VI. 

What    hand    and    brain    went   ever 
paired  ? 

What    heart    alike    conceived    and 
dared  ? 

What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had 
been  ? 

What  will  but  felt  the  fleshy  screen  ? 
We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 

There's  many  a  crown  for  who  can 
reach. 

Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each  ! 

The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 

A  soldier's  doing  !  what  atones  ? 

They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey- 
stones. 
My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave 


34 


MESMERISM. 


What  does  it  all  mean,  poet  ?    Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you 

tell 

What  we  felt  only  ;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 
And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side 

by  side. 
'Tis  something,  nay  'tis  much:  but 

then, 
Have  you   yourself  what's  best  for 

men? 
Are  you  —  poor,  sick,  old  ere  your 

time  — 

Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
Than  we  who  have  never  turned  a 

rhyme  ? 
Sing,  riding's  ^  joy!   For  me,  I  ride. 


And  you,  great  sculptor — so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that's  your  Venus,  whence  we 

turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn  .' 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine  ? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  gray 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"  Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions 

end! " 
I  gave  my  youth;  but  we  ride,  in 

fine.      ' 


Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us?    Had 

fate 

Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being  —  had  I  signed  the  bond  — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 
Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-de- 
scried. 

This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such  ?    Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth   being  so  good,  would  heaven 

seem  best  ? 

Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond 
this  ride. 


And  yet  —  she  has  not  spoke  so  long! 

What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and 
strong 

At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 

Whither  life's  flower  is  first  dis- 
cerned. 


We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide  ? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two, 
With  life  forever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity,  — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 

Ride,  ride  together,  forever  ride  ? 


MESMERISM. 


ALL  I  believed  is  true  ! 

I  am  able  yet 

All  I  want,  to  get 
By  a  method  as  strange  as  new. 
Dare  I  trust  the  same  to  you  ? 


If  at  night,  when  doors  are  shut, 

And  the  wood-worm  picks, 

And  the  death-watch  ticks, 

And  the  bar  has  a  flag  of  smut, 

And  a  cat's  in  the  water-butt  — 


And  the  socket  floats  and  flares, 

And  the  house-beams  groan, 

And  a  foot  unknown 

Is  surmised  on  the  garret-stairs, 

And  the  locks  slip  unawares  — 


And  the  spider,  to  serve  his  ends, 

By  a  sudden  thread, 

Arms  and  legs  outspread, 
On  the  table's  midst  descends, 
Comes   to    find,    God    knows    what 
friends !  — 


If  since  eve  drew  in,  I  say, 
I  have  sat  and  brought 
(So  to  speak)  my  thought 
To  bear  on  the  woman  away, 
Till  I  felt  my  hair  turn  gray  — 


Till  I  seemed  to  have  and  hold, 

In  the  vacancy 

'Twixt  the  wall  and  me 
From  the  hair-plait's  chestnut-gold 
To  the  foot  in  its  muslin  fold  — 


MESMERISM. 


35 


Have  and  hold,  then  and  there, 
Her,  from  head  to  foot, 
Breathing  and  mute, 

Passive  and  yet  aware, 

In  the  grasp  of  my  steady  stare  • 


Hold  and  have,  there  and  then, 
All  her  body  and  soul 
That  completes  my  whole, 
All  that  women  add  to  men, 
In  the  clutch  of  my  steady  ken  • 


Having  and  holding,  till 

I  imprint  her  fast 

On  the  void  at  last 
As  the  sun  does  whom  he  will 
By  the  calotypist's  skill  — 


Then,  —  if  my  heart's  strength  serve, 
And  through  all  and  each 
Of  the  veils  I  reach 

To  her  soul  and  never  swerve, 

Knitting  an  iron  nerve  — 


Command  her  soul  to  advance 
And  inform  the  shape 
Which  has  made  escape 
And  before  my  countenance 
Answers  me  glance  for  glance  — 


I,  still  with  a  gesture  fit 
Of  my  hands  that  best 
Do  my  soul's  behest, 
Pointing  the  power  from  it, 
While  myself  do  steadfast  sit  — 


Steadfast  and  still  the  same 

On  my  object  bent, 

While  the  hands  give  vent 
To  my  ardor  and  my  aim 
And  break  into  very  flame  — 

XIV. 

Then  I  reach,  I  must  believe, 
Not  her  soul  in  vain, 
For  to  me  again 
It  reaches,  and  past  retrieve 
Is  wound  in  the  toils  I  weave 


And  must  follow  as  I  require. 

As  befits  a  thrall, 

Bringing  flesh  and  all, 
Essence  and  earth-attire, 
To  the  source  of  the  tractile  fire  : 


Till  the  house  called  hers,  not  mine, 

With  a  growing  weight 

Seems  to  suffocate 
If  she  break  not  its  leaden  line 
And  escape  from  its  close  confine. 


Out  of  doors  into  the  night ! 

On  to  the  maze 

Of  the  wild  wood-ways, 
Not  turning  to  left  nor  right 
From  the  pathway,  blind  with  sight  — 


Making  through  rain  and  wind 
O'er  the  broken  shrubs, 
'Twixt  the  stems  and  stubs, 
With  a  still,  composed,  strong  mind, 
Not  a  care  for  the  world  behind  — 


Swifter  and  still  more  swift, 

As  the  crowding  peace 

Doth  to  joy  increase 
In  the  wide  blind  eyes  uplift 
Through  the  darkness  and  the  drift! 


While  I  —  to  the  shape,  I,  too, 

Feel  my  soul  dilate  : 

Nor  a  whit  abate, 
And  relax  not  a  gesture  due, 
As  I  see  my  belief  come  true. 


For,  there  !  have  I  drawn  or  no 

Life  to  that  lip  ? 

Do  my  fingers  dip 
In  a  flame  which  again  they  throw 
On  the  cheek  that  breaks  aglow  ? 


Ha  !  was  the  hair  so  first  ? 

What,  unfilleted, 

Made  alive,  and  spread 
Through  the  void  with  a  rich  outburst 
Chestnut  gold-interspersed  ? 


BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 


Like  the  doors  of  a  casket-shrine, 

See,  on  either  side, 

Her  two  arms  divide 
Till  the  heart  betwixt  makes  sign, 
"  Take  me,  for  I  am  thine  !  " 


"  Now — now  "  —  the  door  is  heard  ! 

Hark,  the  stairs  !  and  near  — 

Nearer  —  and  here  — 

"  Now  !  "  and,  at  call  the  third, 
She  enters  without  a  word. 


On  doth  she  march  and  on 

To  the  fancied  shape  ; 

It  is,  past  escape, 
Herself,  now  :  the  dream  is  done, 
And  the  shadow  and  she  are  one. 


First,  I  will  pray.    Do  Thou 
That  ownest  the  soul, 
Yet  wilt  grant  control 
To  another,  nor  disallow 
For  a  time,  restrain  me  now ! 


I  admonish  me  while  I  may, 
Not  to  squander  guilt, 
Since  require  Thou  wilt 

At  my  hand  its  price  one  day  ! 

What  the  price  is,  who  can  say  ? 


BY  THE  FIRESIDE. 


How  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to 

do 

"When  the  long  dark  autumn  even- 
ings come  ; 
And  where,  my  soul,  is  thy  pleasant 

hue? 
"With  the  music  of  all  thy  voices, 

dumb 
In  life's  November  too  ! 


I  shall  be  found  by  the  fire,  suppose, 
O'er  a  great  wise  book,  as  beseem- 
eth  age  ; 


While  the  shutters  flap  as  the  cross- 
wind  blows, 

And  I  turn  the  page,  and  I  turn  the 
page, 

Not  verse  now,  only  prose  ! 


Till  the  young  ones  whisper,  finger 
on  lip, 

"  There  he  is  at  it,  deep  in  Greek  : 
Now  then,  or  never,  out  we  slip 

To  cut  from  the  hazels  by  the  creek 
A  mainmast  for  our  ship  ! " 


I  shall  be  at  it  indeed,  my  friends ! 

Greek  puts  already  on  either  side 
Such  a  branch-work  forth  as  soon  ex- 
tends 

To  a  vista  opening  far  and  wide, 
And  I  pass  out  where  it  ends. 


The  outside  frame,  like  your  hazel- 
trees  — 

But  the  inside-archway  widens  fast, 
And  a  rarer  sort  succeeds  to  these, 

And  we  slope  to  Italy  at  last 
And  youth,  by  green  degrees. 


I  follow  wherever  I  am  led, 

Knowing  so  well  the  leader's  hand  : 
O  woman-country,  wooed  not  wed, 

Loved  all  the  more  by  earth's  male- 
lands. 
Laid  to  their  hearts  instead  ! 


Look  at  the  ruined  chapel  again 
Half-way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge  ! 

Is  that  a  tower,  I  point  you  plain, 
Or  is  it  a  mill,  or  an  iron  forge 

Breaks  solitude  in  vain  ? 


VIII. 

A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of 

things  ; 
The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped 

and  dim  : 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and 

springs, 

The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 
Through   the    ravage    some    torrent 
brings ! 


BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 


37 


Does  it  feed  the  little  lake  below  ? 

That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella  ;  see,  in  the  evening  glow, 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads 

charge 
"When  Alp  meets  heaven  in  snow  ! 


On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up 

rock  ; 
And  a  path  is  kept  'twixt  the  gorge 

and  it 
By    bowlder-stones,    where     lichens 

mock 
The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small 

ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block. 


Oh  the  sense  of  the  yellow  mountain 

flowers, 

And  thorny  balls,  each  three  in  one, 
The  chestnuts  throw  on  our  path  in 

showers  ! 
For  the  drop  of  the  woodland  fruit's 

begun, 
These  early  November  hours, 


That  crimson  the  creeper's  leaf  across 
Like  a  splash  of  blood,  intense,  ab- 
rupt, 
O'er  a  shield  else  gold  from  rim  to 

boss, 

And  lay  it  for  show  on  the  fairy- 
cupped 
Elf-needled  mat  of  moss, 


By  the  rose-flesh  mushrooms,  undi- 

vulged 
Last  evening  —  nay,  in  to-day's  first 

dew 

Yon  sudden  coral  nipple  bulged, 
Where    a     freaked     fawn-colored 

flaky  crew 
Of  toad-stools  peep  indulged. 


A.nd  yonder,  at  foot  of  the  fronting 

ridge 

That  takes  the  turn  to  a  range  be- 
yond, 


Is  the   chapel   reached   by  the   one- 
arched  bridge, 

Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a 
stagnant  pond 

Danced  over  by  the  midge. 


The  chapel  and  bridge  are  of  stone 

alike, 

Blackish-gray  and  mostly  wet ; 
Cut  hemp-stalks  steep  in  the  narrow 

dike. 

See  here  again,  how  the  lichens  fret 
And  the  roots  of  the  ivy  strike  ! 


Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest 

comes 

On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 
To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered 

homes, 

Gathered  within  that  precinct  small 
By  the  dozen  ways  one  roams — 


To  drop  from  the  charcoal-burners' 

huts, 
Or  climb  from  the  hemp-dresser's 

low  shed, 

Leave  the  grange  where  the  wood- 
man stores  his  nuts, 
Or    the   wattled    cote   where    the 

fowlers  spread 
Their  gear  on  the  rock's  bare  juts. 


It  has  some  pretension  too,  this  front, 
With  its  bit  of  fresco  half-moon- 
wise 

Set  over  the  porch,  Art's  early  wont : 
'Tis  John  in  the  Desert,  I  surmise, 

But  has  borne  the  weather's  brunt  — 


Not  from  the   fault  of  the   builder, 

though, 

For  a  pent-house  properly  projects 
Where  three  carved  beams  make  a 

certain  show, 

Dating  —  good  thought  of  our  archi- 
tect's — 
'Five,  six,  nine,  he  lets  you  know. 


And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 
And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the 
pond  at  times ; 


88 


BY   THE  FIRESIDE. 


The  place  is  silent  and  aware  ; 
It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and 

crimes, 
But  that  is  its  own  affair. 

XXI. 

My  perfect  wife,  my  Leonor, 
O  heart,  iny  own !     O  eyes,  mine 

too ! 

"Whom  else  could  I  dare  look  back- 
ward for, 
With  whom  beside  should  I  dare 

pursue 
The  path  gray  heads  abhor  ? 

xxn. 

For  it  leads  to  a  crag's  sheer  edge  with 

them  ; 
Youth,  flowery  all  the  way,  there 

stops  — 

Not  the y ;  age  threatens  and  they  con- 
temn, 
Till  they  reach   the  gulf  wherein 

youth  drops, 
One  inch  from  our  life's  safe  hem ! 

xxm. 
With  me,  youth  led  .  .  .  I  will  speak 

now, 

No  longer  watch  you  as  you  sit 
Reading  by  firelight,  that  great  brow 
And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping 

it, 
Mutely  my  heart  knows  how  — 


When,  if  I  think  but  deep  enough, 
You  are  wont  to  answer,  prompt  as 

rhyme  ; 

And  you,  too,  find  without  rebuff 
Response  your  soul  seeks  many  a 

time, 
Piercing  its  fine  flesh-stuff. 

XXV. 

My  own,  confirm  me  !    If  I  tread 
This  path  back,  is  it  not  in  pride 

To  think  how  little  I  dreamed  it  led 
To  an  age  so  blest  that,  by  its  side, 

Youth  seems  the  waste  instead  ? 

XXVI. 

My  own,  see  where  the  years   con- 
duct! 

At  first,  'twas  something  our  two 
souls 


Should    mix    as    mists    do ;    each    is 

*  sucked 
In  each  now  :  on,  the  new  stream 

rolls, 
Whatever  rocks  obstruct. 

XXVII. 

Think,    when    our    one    soul    under- 

stauds 
The  great  Word  which  makes  all 

things  new, 
When  earth  breaks  up  and  heaven 

expands, 
How  will  the  change  strike  me  and 

you 
In  the  house  not  made  with  hands  ? 


Oh  !  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt 
mine, 

Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart, 
You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine, 

See  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  divine! 


But  wlio  could  have  expected  this 
When  we  two  drew  together  first 

Just  for  the  obvious  human  bliss, 
To  satisfy  life's  daily  thirst 

With  a  thing  men  seldom  miss  ? 

XXX. 

Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of 
all, 

Let  us  lean  and  love  it  over  again, 
Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall, 

Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain, 
And  gather  what  we  let  fall ! 

XXXI. 

What  did  I  say  ?  — that  a  small  bird 

sings 
All  day  long,  save  when  a  brown 

pair 
Of  hawks  from  the  wood  float  with 

wide  wings 
Strained  to  a  bell :  'gainst  noonday 

glare 
You  count  the  streaks  and  rings. 


But  at  afternoon  or  almost  eve 
'Tis  better;  then  the  silence  grows 

To  that  degree,  you  half  believe 
It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows, 

Its  bosom  does  so  heave. 


,d~rM  '.                                      .  c  f^rrbx 

9r                                                           XE 

£                                                         BY  THE  FIRESIDE                                             39        ]P 

XXXIII. 

XXXIX. 

Hither  we  walked  then,  side  by  side, 

Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it 

Ann  in  arm  and  cheek  to  cheek, 

is! 

And  still  I  questioned  or  replied, 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  world* 

While  my  heart,  convulsed  to  really 

away  !                                                      J 

speak, 

How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content 

Lay  choking  in  its  pride. 

to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath   suspend    the    blood's 

best  play, 

XXXIV. 

Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 

And  life  be  a  proof  of  this  ! 

And    pity   and   praise   the   chapel 

XL. 

sweet, 
And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss, 

Had  she  willed  it,  still  had  stood  the 

And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  re- 

screen 
So  slight,  so  sure,  'twixt  my  love 

treat, 

it  in  1  her  * 

And  wonder  at  the  moss. 

I  could  fix  her  face  with  a  guard  be- 

tween, 

XXXV. 

And  find  her  soul  as  when  friends 

Stoop  and  kneel  on  the  settle  under, 
Look  through  the  window's  grated 

confer, 
Friends  —  lovers     that    might    have 
been. 

square  : 

Nothing  to  see  !    For  fear  of  plunder, 

The  cross  is  down  and  the   altar 

XLI. 

bare, 

For  my  heart  had  a  touch  of  the  wood- 

As if  thieves  don't  fear  thunder. 

land  time, 

Wanting  to  sleep  now  over  its  best. 

Shake  the  whole  tree  in  the  summer- 

XXXVI. 

prime, 

We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the 

But  bring  to  the  last  leaf  no  such 

grate, 

test! 

See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 

"  Hold    the    last    fast  !  "     runs    the 

Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date  ; 

rhyme. 

Then    cross    the    bridge    that    we 

crossed  before, 

XLII. 

Take  the  path  again  —  but  wait  ! 

For  a   chance   to    make  your    little 

much, 

XXXVII. 

Oh  moment  one  and  infinite  ! 
The    water    slips    o'er    stock    and 

To  gain  a  lover  and  lose  a  friend, 
Venture  the  tree  and  a  myriad  such, 
When  nothing  you  mar  but  the  year 
can  mend  : 

stone  ; 
The  West  is  tender,  hardly  bright  : 

But  a  last  leaf  —  fear  to  touch  ! 

How  gray  at  once  is  the  evening 

XLIII. 

grown  — 
One  star,  its  chrysolite  ! 

Yet  should  it  unfasten  itself  and  fall 
Eddying  down  till  it  find  your  face 

At  some  slight  wind  —  best  chance  of 

XXXVIII. 

We  two  stood   there  with   never  a 
third, 
But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew 

all! 
Be  your  heart  henceforth  its  dwell- 
ing-place 
You  trembled  to  forestall  ! 

T                     well  : 

The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we 

XLIV.                                                     *\ 

heard, 

Worth   how  well,   those    dark   gray 

The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up 

eyes, 

a  spell 

That  hair  so  dark  and  dear,  how 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred. 

worth 

J  l»                                                                                                                                                    J 

^H         1  fc                                     j                                                                                                                                        £                                    •)  1  \^ 

*)  f»        40                               ANY   WIFE   TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 

That  a  man  should  strive  and  agonize, 
And  taste  a  veriest  hell  on  earth 

And  each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 
The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general 

For  the  hope  of  such  a  prize  ! 

plan  ; 
Each  living  his  own,  to  boot. 

J    l>                                                     XLV. 

«J  \i 

You  might  have  turned  and  tried  a 

man, 

LI. 

Set  him  a  space  to  weary  and  wear, 

I  am  named  and  known  by  that  mo* 

And  prove  which  suited  more  your 

ment's  feat  ; 

plan, 

There  took  my  station  and  degree  ; 

His  best  of  hope  or  his  worst  de- 

So  grew    my   own    small    life    com- 

spair. 

plete, 

Yet  end  as  he  began. 

As  nature  obtained  her  best  of  me  --• 

One  born  to  love  you,  sweet  ! 

XLVI. 

But  you  spared  me  this,  like  the  heart 

/ou  are, 

tm. 

filled   my  empty  heart   at   a 

And  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fireside 

word. 

now 

If  two  lives  join  ,  there  is  oft  a  scar, 
They  are  one  and  one,  with  a  shad- 

Back again,  as  you  mutely  sit 
Musing  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 

owy  third; 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping 

One  near  one  is  too  far. 

it, 

Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how  ! 

XLVII. 

A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

LI1I. 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us 
fast; 

So,  earth  has  gained  by  one  man  the 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken 
between 

more, 
And    the    gain   of    earth   must   be 

Life  and  life:  we  were  mixed  at  last 
In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 

heaven's  gain  too  ; 
And  the  whole  is  well  worth  think- 

ing o  er 

When    autumn    conies  :    which    I 

XLVIH. 

mean  to  do 

The  forests  had  done  it  ;  there  they 

One  day,  as  I  said  before. 

stood; 

We  caught  for  a  moment  the  pow- 

ers at  play  : 

They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and 

good, 
Their  work  was  done  —  we  might 

ANY    WIFE    TO    ANY    HUS- 

go  or  stay, 
They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood. 

BAXD. 

i. 

XLIX. 

How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us  ! 

Mr  love,  this  is  the  bitterest,  that 

How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 
Tends    to    some    moment's    product 

thou  — 
Who  art  all  truth,  and  who  dost  love 
me  now 

thus, 
When  a  soul  declares  itself  —  to  wit, 
By  its  fruit,  the  thing  it  does  ! 

As   thine  eyes   say,   as  thy  voice 
breaks  to  say  — 
Shouldst  love  so  truly,  and  couldst           t 

1  (* 

love  me  still                                             *)  (" 

L. 

A  whole  long  life  through,  had  but 

Be  hate  that  fruit,  or  love  that  fruit, 

love  its  will, 

It  forwards  the   general   deed   of 

Would  death,  that  leads  me  from 

man, 

thee,  brook  delay. 

v    l>                                                                                                                                                                                                                             «J    V. 

ANY    WIFE   TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 


41 


I  have  but  to  be  by  thee,  and  thy  hand 
Will   never  let   mine   go,   nor  heart 

withstand 
The  beating  of  my  heart  to  reach 

its  place. 
When  shall  I  look  for  thee  and  feel 

thee  gone  ? 
When  cry  for  the  old  comfort  and 

find  none  ? 
Never,  I  know  !    Thy  soul  is  in  thy 

face. 

in. 
Oh,  I   should   fade  —  'tis  willed  so  ! 

Might  I  save, 
Gladly    I    would,    whatever    beauty 

gave 

Joy  to  thy  sense,  for  that  was  pre- 
cious too. 

It  is  not  to  be  granted.    But  the  soul 
Whence  the  love  comes,  all  ravage 

leaves  that  whole  ; 
Vainly  the  flesh  fades  ;  soul  makes 
all  things  new. 


It  would  not  be  because  my  eye  grew 

dim 
Thou  couldst  not  find  the  love  there, 

thanks  to  Him 
Who   never  is   dishonored   in   the 

spark 
He  gave  us  from  his  fire  of  fires,  and 

bade 
Kemember  whence  it  sprang,  nor  be 

afraid 
While  that  burns  on,  though  all  the 

rest  grow  dark. 

v. 

So,   how  thou    wouldst   be    perfect, 
white  and  clean 

Outside  as  inside,  soul  and  soul's  de- 
mesne 

Alike,  this  body  given  to  show  it 
by  ! 

Oh,  three-parts  through  the  worst  of 
life's  abyss, 

What  plaudits  from  the  next  world 

after  this, 

Couldst  thou  repeat  a  stroke  and 
gain  the  sky  ! 


And  is  it  not  the  bitterer  to  think 
That,  disengage  our  hands  and  thou 
wilt  sink 


Although  thy  love  was  love  in  very 

deed? 
I  know  that  nature !    Pass  a  festive 

day, 
Thou  dost  not  throw  its  relic-flower 

away, 

Nor  bid  its  music's  loitering  echc 
speed. 


Thou  let'st  the  stranger's  glove  lie 

where  it  fell ; 
If  old  things  remain  old  things  all  is 

well, 
For  thou  art  grateful  as  becomes 

man  best : 
And  hadst  thou  only  heard  me  play 

one  tune, 
Or  viewed  me  from  a  window,  not  so 

soon 
With  thee  would  such  things  fade 

as  with  the  rest. 


I  seem  to  see  !  We  meet  and  part ; 

'tis  brief ; 
The  book  I  opened  keeps  a  folded 

leaf, 
The  very  chair  I  sat  on,  breaks  the 

rank ; 

That  is  a  portrait  of  me  on  the  wall  — 
Three   lines,   my   face   comes  at   so 

slight  a  call  : 
And  for  all  this,  one  little  hour  to 

thank  ! 

IX. 

But  now,  because  the  hour  through 
years  was  fixed, 

Because  our  inmost  beings  met  and 

mixed, 

Because  thou  once  hast  loved  me  — 
wilt  thou  dare 

Say  to  thy  soul  and  Who  may  list  be- 
side, 

"  Therefore    she    is    immortally    my 

bride  ; 

Chance  cannot  change  my  love,  nor 
time  impair. 


"  So,  what  if  in  the  dusk  of  life  that's 
left, 

I,  a  tired  traveller  of  my  sun  bereft, 
Look  from  my  path  when,  mimick- 
ing the  same, 

The  fire-fly  glimpses  past  me,  come 
and  gone  ? 


42 


ANY    WIFE   TO  ANY  HUSBAND. 


—  Where  was  it  till  the  sunset  ?  where 

anon 

It  will  be  at  the  sunrise  !    What's 
to  blame?" 


Is  it  so  helpful  to  thee  ?    Canst  thou 

take 
The  mimic  up,  nor,  for  the  true  thing's 

sake, 

Put  gently  by  such  efforts  at  a  beam? 
Is  the  remainder  of  the  way  so  long, 
Thou  need'st  the  little  solace,  thou 

the  strong  ? 
Watch  out  thy  watch,  let  weak  ones 

doze  and  dream. 


—  Ah,  but  the  fresher  faces !    "  Is  it 

true," 
Thou'lt  ask,  "  some  eyes  are  beautiful 

and  new  ? 
Some  hair,  —  how  can  one  choose 

but  grasp  such  wealth  ? 
And  if  a  man  would  press  his  lips  to 

lips 
Fresh  as  the  wilding  hedge-rose-cup 

there  slips 
The  dewdrop  out  of,  must  it  be  by 

stealth  ? 


"  It  cannot  change  the  love  still  kept 

for  her, 

More  than  if  such  a  picture  I  prefer 
Passing  a  day  with,  to  a  room's  bare 

side : 
The  painted  form  takes  nothing  she 

possessed, 
Yet,  while  the  Titian's  Venus  lies  at 

rest, 
A  man  looks.    Once  more,  what  is 

there  to  chide?" 


So  must  I  see,  from  where  I  sit  and 

watch, 
My  own  self  sell  myself,  my  hand 

attach 
Its  warrant  to  the  very  thefts  from 

me  — 
Thy  singleness  of  soul  that  made  me 

proud. 

Thy  purity  of  heart  I  loved  aloud,    , 
Thy  man's-truth  I  was  bold  to  bid 

God  see ! 


Love  so,  then,  if  thou  wilt !    Give  all 

thou  canst 
Away    to    the    new    faces  —  disen- 

tranced, 
(Say  it  and  think  it)  obdurate  no 

more, 
Re-issue  looks  and  words  from  the  old 

mint, 
Pass  them  afresh,  no  matter  whose 

the  print, 
Image,  and  superscription  once  they 

bore ! 


Re-coin  thyself,  and  give  it  them  to 

spend, — 
It  all  comes  to  the  same  thing  at  the 

end, 
Since  mine    thou  wast,  mine  art, 

and  mine  shalt  be, 
Faithful  or  faithless :  sealing  up  the 

sum 
Or  lavish  of  my  treasure,  thou  mugt 

come 
Back   to  the  heart's  place  here  I 

keep  for  thee  ! 


XVII. 

Only,  \vhy  should  it  be  with  stain  at 

all? 
Why  must  I,   'twixt  the    leaves    of 

coronal, 
Put    any  kiss    of    pardon    on    thy 

brow  ? 
Why  need  the  other  women  know  so 

much, 
And  talk  together,   "  Such  the  look 

and  such 
The  smile  he  used  to  love  with,  then 

as  now  !  " 


XVIII. 

Might    I    die    last    and   show  thee ! 

Should  I  find 
Such  hardships  in  the  few  years  left 

behind, 
If  free  to  take  and  light  my  lamp, 

and  go 
Into  thy  tomb,  and  shut  the  door  and 

sit, 
Seeing  thy  face  on  those  four  sides  of 

it 
The  better  that  they  are  so  blank,  I 

know ! 


IN  A    YEAR. 


43 


XIX. 

Why,  time  was  what  I  wanted,  to  turn 

o'er 
Within  iny  mind  each  look,  get  more 

and  more 
By  heart  each  word,  too  much  to 

learn  at  first ; 
And  join  thee  all  the  fitter  for  the 

pause 
Neath    the    low    door-way's    lintel. 

That  were  cause 
For  lingering,  though  thou  calledst, 

if  I  durst ! 


And  yet  thou  art  the  nobler  of  us 

two  : 
What  dare  I  dream  of,  that  thou  canst 

not  do. 
Outstripping    my  ten    small    steps 

with  one  stride  ? 
I'll  say  then,  here's    a   trial  and  a 

task  ; 
Is   it   to   bear  ?  —  if    easy,   I'll    not 

ask  : 
Though  love  fail,  I  can  trust  on  in 

thy  pride. 


Pride  ?  —  when  those   eyes    forestall 

the  life  behind 
The  death  I  have  to  go  through  !  — 

when  I  find, 
Now  that  I  want  thy  help  most,  all 

of  thee  ! 
What  did  I  fear  ?   Thy  love  shall  hold 

me  fast 
Until   the   little    minute's    sleep    is 

past 
And  I  wake  saved. —   And  yet  it 

will  not  be ! 


IN  A  YEAR. 


NEVER  any  more, 

While  I  live, 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive  : 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace,    ' 

Single  still. 


Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 
Vexed  him  ?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 

Turn  of  head  ? 
Strange  !  that  very  way 

Love  begun : 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 


When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sung, 

—  Sweetly  too. 
If  I  spoke  a  word, 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  color  sprung, 

Then  he  heard. 


Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 
So  he  breathed  but  air  I  breathed, 

Satisfied  ! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet : 
I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 


"  Speak,  I  love  thee  best !  " 

He  exclaimed  : 
"  Let  thy  love  my  own  foretell !  " 

I  confessed  : 
"  Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

Now  unblamed, 
Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

Hangeth  mine ! " 


Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth  ? 
Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone  ? 
I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

Beauty,  youth  : 
Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 


That  was  all  I  meant, 

—  To  be  just, 
And  the  passion  I  had  raised, 

To  content. 


44 


SONG   FROM   "JAMES  LEE: 


Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised 

Was  it  strange  ? 

VIII. 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed 

—  Paid  rny  debt ! 
Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till  all  gone, 
He  should  smile  "  She  never  seemed 

Mine  before. 


"  What,  she  felt  the  while, 

Must  I  think  ? 
Love's  so  different  with  us  men  !  " 

He  should  smile  : 
"  Dying  for  my  sake  — 

White  and  pink ! 
Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

But  they  break  ?  " 


Dear,  the  pang  is  brief, 

Do  thy  part, 
Have  thy  pleasure  !    How  perplexed 

Grows  belief ! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart : 
Crumble  it,  and  what  comes  next  ? 

Is  it  God  ? 


SONG  FROM  "JAMES  LEE." 


OH,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown 

old  earth, 

This   autumn    morning !    How    he 
sets  his  bones 

To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out 
knees  and  feet 

For  the  ripple  to  run  over  in  its  mirth  : 
Listening  the  while,  where  on  the 
heap  of  stones 

The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twit- 
ters sweet. 


That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient, 

true  ; 

Such   is   life's   trial,    as    old    earth 
smiles  and  knows. 


If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth 

your  love, 
Love  were  clear  gain,  and  wholly  well 

for  you. 
Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your 

tliroes  ! 
Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain 

above ! 


A  WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD- 


LET'S  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Strive  nor  weep : 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 

—  Only  sleep  ! 


What  so  wild  as  words  are  ? 

I  and  thou 
In  debate,  as  birds  are, 

Hawk  on  bough  ! 

in. 

See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak ! 
Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek. 

IV. 

What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee  ? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is, 

Shun  the  tree  — 


\Vhere  the  apple  reddens, 

Never  pry  — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 

Eve  and  I. 


Be  a  god,  and  hold  me 
With  a  charm ! 

Be  a  man,  and  fold  me 
With  thine  arm  I 


Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love  i 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love, 

Think  thy  thought  — 


Meeting  at  Night.  - 


WOMEN  AND   ROSES. 


45 


Meet,  if  them  require  it, 
Both  demands, 

Laying  flesh  and  spirit 
In  thy  hands. 


That  shall  be  to-morrow, 

Not  to-night : 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight : 


—  Must  a  little  weep,  Love, 

(Foolish  me  !) 
And  so  fall  asleep,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee. 


MEETING   AT  NIGHT. 


THE  gray  sea  and  the  long  black  land ; 
And  the  yellow  half-moon  large  and 

low; 
And   the   startled   little  waves   that 

leap 

In  fiery  ringlets  from  their  sleep, 
As  I  gain  the  cove  with  pushing  prow, 
And  quench  its  speed  i'  the  slushy 

sand. 


Then  a  mile  of  warm  sea-scented 
beach  ; 

Three  fields  to  cross  till  a  farm  ap- 
pears ; 

A  tap  at  the  pane,  the  quick  sharp 
scratch 

And  blue  spurt  of  a  lighted  match, 

And  a  voice  less  loud,  through  joys 
and  fears, 

Than  the  two  hearts  beating  each  to 
each ! 


PARTING  AT  MORNING. 

ROUND  the  cape  of  a  sudden  came  the 
sea, 

And  the  sun  looked  over  the  moun- 
tain's rim  : 

A.nd  straight  was  a  path  of  gold  for 
him, 

And  the  need  of  a  world  of  men  for 
me. 


WOMEN   AND  ROSES. 

i. 

I  DREAM  of  a  red-rose  tree. 
And  which  of  its  roses  three 
Is  the  dearest  rose  to  me  ? 


Hound  and  round,   like  a  dance  of 

snow 
In  a  dazzling  drift,  as  its  guardians, 

go 

Floating  the  women  faded  for  ages, 
Sculptured   in   stone,  on   the   poet's 

pages. 

Then  follow  women  fresh  and  gay, 
Living  and  loving  and  loved  to-day. 
Last,  in  the  rear,  flee  the  multitude 

of  maidens, 
Beauties  yet  unborn.    And  all,  to  one 

cadence, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose-tree. 


Dear  rose,  thy  term  is  reached, 
Thy  leaf  hangs  loose  and  bleached  : 
Bees  pass  it  unimpeached. 


Stay,  then,  stoop,  since  I  cannot 
climb, 

You,  great  shapes  of  the  antique  time, 

How  shall  I  fix  you,  fire  you,  freeze 
you, 

Break  iny  heart  at  your  feet  to  please 
you? 

Oh,  to  possess  and  be  possessed  ! 

Hearts  that  beat  'neath  each  pallid 
breast ! 

Once  but  of  love,  the  poesy,  the  pas- 
sion, 

Drink  but  once  and  die  !  —  In  vain, 
the  same  fashion, 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose-tree 


Dear  rose,  thy  joy's  undimmed  ; 

Thy  cup  is  ruby-rimmed, 

Thy  cup's  heart  nectar-brimmed. 


Deep,  as  drops  from  a  statue's  plinth 
The  bee  sucked  in  by  the  hyacinth, 
So  will  I  bury  me  while  burning, 
Quench    like   him   at  a  plunge  my 
yearning, 


MISCONCEPTIONS. 


Eyes  in  your  eyes,  lips  on  your  lips  ! 
Fold  me  fast  where  the  cincture  slips, 
Prison   all  my  soul  in  eternities  of 

pleasure, 
Girdle  me  for  once!     But  no  —  the 

old  measure, 
They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose-tree. 


Dear  rose  without  a  thorn, 
Thy  bud's  the  babe  unborn  : 
First  streak  cf  a  new  morn. 

vni. 

Wings,  lend  wings  for  the  cold,  the 
clear ! 

What  is  far  conquers  what  is  near. 

Roses  will  bloom  nor  want  behold- 
ers, 

Sprung  from  the  dust  where  our  flesh 
moulders. 

What  shall  arrive  with  the  cycle's 
change  ? 

A  novel  grace  and  a  beauty  strange. 

I  will  make  an  Eve,  be  the  Artist  that 
began  her, 

Shaped  her  to  his  mind  !  —  Alas  !  in 
like  manner 

They  circle  their  rose  on  my  rose-tree. 


MISCONCEPTIOXS. 


FHIS  is  a  spray  the  bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 
Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 
Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 
Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 
Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  fly- 
ing feet  hung  to,  — 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung 
to! 


That  is  a  heart  the  queen  leant  on, 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 
Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 
Oh,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 
Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wan- 
derer went  on, — 

Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to, 
spent  on ! 


A   PRETTY   WOMAN. 


THAT  fawn-skin-dappled  hair  of  hers, 

And  the  blue  eye 

Dear  and  dewy, 
And  that  infantine  fresh  air  of  hers  1 


To  think  men  cannot  take  you,  Sweet; 

And  infold  you, 

Ay,  and  hold  you, 
And  so  keep  you  what  they  make 
•  you,  Sweet ! 


You  like  us  for  a  glance,  you  know  — 

For  a  word's  sake 

Or  a  sword's  sake  : 
All's  the  same,  whate'er  the  chance, 
you  know. 


And  in  turn  we  make  you  ours,  we 

say  — 

You  and  youth  too, 
Eyes  and  mouth  too, 
All  the  face  composed  of  flowers,  we 
say. 

v. 
All's  our  own,  to  make  the  most  of, 

Sweet  — 
Sing  and  say  for, 
Watch  and  pray  for, 
Keep  a  secret  or  go  boast  of,  Sweet ! 


But  for  loving,  why,  you  would  not, 

Sweet, 

Though  we  prayed  you, 
Paid  you,  brayed  you 
In   a   mortar  —  for   you    could    not, 
Sweet ! 

vn. 
So,  we  leave  the  sweet  face  fondly 

there  : 

Be  its  beauty 
Its  sole  duty ! 

Let   all   hope   of   grace   beyond,   lie 
there  ! 

vm. 

And  while  the  face  lies  quiet  there, 
Who  shall  wonder 
That  I  ponder 
A  conclusion  ?    I  will  try  it  there. 


A  LIGHT    WOMAN. 


47 


As,  —  why  must  one,  for  the  love  fore- 
gone, 

Scout  mere  liking  ? 
Thunder-striking 

Earth,  —  the  heaveu,  we  looked  above 
for,  gone  ! 


"Why,     with     beauty,     needs     there 
money  be, 

Love  with  liking  ? 

Crush  the  fly-king 
In  his  gauze,  because  no  honey-bee  ? 


May  not  liking  be  so  simple-sweet, 

If  love  grew  there 

'Twould  undo  there 
All  that  breaks  the  cheek  to  dimples 
sweet  ? 


Is  the  creature  too  imperfect,  say  ? 

Would  you  mend  it, 

And  so  end  it  ? 
Since  not  all  addition  perfects  aye  ! 


Or  is  it  of  its  kind,  perhaps, 

Just  perfection  — 

Whence,  rejection 
Of  a  grace  not  to  its  mind,  perhaps  ? 


Shall  we  burn  up,  tread  that  face  at 

once 

Into  tinder, 
And  so  hinder 

Sparks  from  kindling  all  the  place  at 
once? 

xv. 

Or  else  kiss  away  one's  soul  on  her  ? 

Your  love  fancies  ! 

— A  sick  man  sees 
Truer,  when  his  hot  eyes  roll  on  her  ! 


Thus  the  craftsman  thinks  to  grace 
the  rose,  — 

Plucks  a  mould-flower  - 

For  his  gold  flower, 
Uses  fine  things  that  efface  the  rose  : 


XVII. 

Rosy  rubies  make  its  cup  more  rose, 

Precious  metals 

Ape  the  petals,  — 

Last,  some  old  king  locks  it  up,  mo- 
rose ! 

XVIII. 

Then  how  grace  a  rose  ?    I  know  a 

way  ! 

Leave  it,  rather. 
Must  you  gather  ? 

Smell,  kiss,  wear  it  —  at  last,  throw 
away! 


A  LIGHT  WOMAN. 


So  far  as  our  story  approaches  the  end, 
Which  do  you  pity  the  most  of  us 

three  ?  — 
My  friend,  or  the    mistress    of    my 

friend 
With  her  wanton  eyes,  or  me  ? 


My  friend  was  already  too  good  to  lose, 
And  seemed  in  the  way  of  improve- 
ment yet, 
When  she  crossed  his  path  with  her 

hunting-noose, 
And  over  him  drew  her  net. 


When  I  saw  him  tangled  in  her  toils, 
A  shame,  said  I,  if  she  adds  just 
him 

To  her  nine  and  ninety  other  spoils, 
The  hundredth  for  a  whim  ! 


And  before  my  friend  be  wholly  hers, 
How  easy  to  prove  to  him,  I  said, 

An  eagle's  the  game  her  pride  pre- 
fers, 
Though  she  snaps  at  a  wren  instead : 


So,  I  gave  her  eyes  my  own  eyes  t« 

take, 
My  hand  sought  hers  as  in  earnest 

need, 
And  round  she  turned  for  my  noble 

sake, 
And  gave  me  herself  indeed. 


48 


LOVE  IN  A  LIFE. 


The  eagle  am  I,  with  my  fame  in  the 

world, 
The  wren  is  he,  with  his  maiden 

face. 
—  You    look    away  and   your  lip  is 

curled  ? 
Patience,  a  moment's  space  ! 


For  see,  my  friend  goes  shaking  and 

white; 

He  eyes  me  as  the  basilisk  : 
I  have  turned,  it  appears,  his  day  to 

night, 
Eclipsing  his  sun's  disk. 


And  I  did  it,  he  thinks,  as  a  very 

thief : 

"  Though  I  love  her  —  that,  he  com- 
prehends — 
One   should    master    one's    passions 

(love,  in  chief), 
And  be  loyal  to  one's  friends  !  " 


And  she,  —  she  lies  in  my  hand  as 
taine 

As  a  pear  late  basking  over  a  wall ; 
Just  a  touch  to  try,  and  off  it  came  ; 

'Tis  mine,  —  can  I  let  it  fall  ? 


x. 

With  no  mind  to  eat  it,  that's  the 

worst ! 
Were  it  thrown  in  the  road,  would 

the  case  assist  ? 
'Twas  quenching  a  dozen  blue-flies' 

thirst 
When  I  gave  its  stalk  a  twist. 


And  I,  —  what  I  seem  to  my  friend, 

you  see  ; 
What  I  soon  shall  seem  to  his  love, 

you  guess  : 
What  I  seem  to  myself,  do  you  ask  of 

me? 
No  hero,  I  confess. 

XII. 

Tis  an  awkward  thing  to  play  with 

souls, 

And  matter  enough  to  save  one's 
own  : 


Yet  think  of  my  friend,  and  the  burn- 
ing coals 
He  played  with  for  bits  of  stone  ! 


One  likes  to  show  the  truth  for  th« 

truth ; 
That  the  woman  was  light  is  very 

true : 
But  suppose  she  says,  —  Never  mind 

that  youth !  t 

What  wrong  have  I  done  to  you? 


Well,  anyhow,  here  the  story  stays, 
So  far  at  least  as  I  understand  ; 

And,  Robert  Browning,  you  writer  of 

plays, 
Here's  a  subject  made  to  your  hand  1 


LOVE   IN   A   LIFE. 


ROOM  after  room, 

I  hunt  the  house  through 

We  inhabit  together. 

Heart,  fear  nothing,  for,  heart,  thou 
shalt  find  her  — 

Next  time,  herself  !  —  not  the  trouble 
behind  her 

Left  in  the  curtain,  the  couch's  per- 
fume ! 

As  she  brushed  it,  the  cornice-wreath 
blossomed  anew : 

Yon  looking-glass  gleamed  at  the 
wave  of  her  feather. 


Yet  the  day  wears, 

And  door  succeeds  door  ; 

I  try  the  fresh  fortune  — 

Range  the  wide  house  from  the  wing 

to  the  centre. 
Still  the  same  chance  !  she  goes  out  as 

I  enter. 
Spend  my  whole  day  in  the  quest,  — 

who  cares  ? 
But  'tis  twilight,  you  see,  —  with  such 

suites  to  explore, 
Such  closets  to  search,  such  alcoves 

to  importune  ! 


THE  LABORATORY. 


49 


LIFE   IN  A   LOVE. 

ESCA.PS  me? 

Never — 

Beloved ! 

AVhile  I  am  I,  and  70:1  are  you, 

So  long  as  the  world  contains  us  both, 

Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth, 
While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other 

pursue. 

My  life  is  a  fault  at  last,  I  fear  : 
It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  in- 
deed ! 
Though  I  do  my  best  I  shall  scares 

succeed. 

But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here? 

It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a 

fall, 

And  baffled,  get  up  and  begin  again,  — 
So  the  chase  takes  up  one's  life, 

that's  all. 

"While,  look  but  once  from  your  far- 
thest bound 

At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark, 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  goes  to  ground 
Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  self- 
same mark, 
I  shape  me  — 
Ever 
Removed  ! 


THE   LABORATORY. 

ANCIEN  REGIME. 


Now   that   I,   tying  thy  glass  mask 

tightly, 
May  gaze  through  these  faint  smokes 

curling  whitely, 
As  thou  pliest  thy  trade  in  this  devil 's- 

smithy  — 
Which  is  the  poison  to  poison  her, 

prithee  ? 


He  is  with  her,  and  they  know  that  I 

know 
Where  they  are,  what  they  do  :  they 

believe  my  tears  flow 
While  they  laugh,  laugh  at  me,  at  me 

fled  to  the  drear 
Empty  church,  to  pray  God  in,  for 

them  !  —  I  am  here. 


Grind  away,  moisten  and  mash  up 

thy  paste, 
Pound  at  thy  powder,  —  I  am  not  in 

haste  ! 
Better    sit    thus    and    observe    thy 

strange  things, 
Than  go  where  men  wait  me,  and 

dance  at  the  King's. 


That  in  the   mortar  — you  call  it  a 

gum? 
Ah,  the  brave  tree  whence  such  gold 

oozings  come  ! 
And  yonder  soft  vial,  the  exquisite 

blue, 
Sure  to  taste  sweetly,  —  is  that  poison 

too? 


Had  I  but  all  of  them,  thee  and  thy 
treasures, 

What  a  wild  crowd  of  invisible  pleas- 
ures ! 

To  carry  pure  death  in  an  earring,  a 
casket, 

A  signet,  a  fan-mount,  a  filigree  bas- 
ket! 


Soon,  at  the  King's,  a  mere  lozenge 

to  give, 
And  Pauline  should  have  just  thirty 

minutes  to  live ! 
But  to  light  a  pastile,  and  Elise  with 

her  head 
And  her  breast  and  her  arms  and  her 

hands,  should  drop  dead  ! 

VII. 

Quick  — is  it  finished?    The  color's 

too  grim  ! 
Why  not  soft  like  the  vial's,  enticing 

and  dim  ? 
Let  it  brighten  her  drink,  let  her  turn 

it  and  stir, 
And  try  it  and  taste,  ere  she  fix  and 

prefer ! 

VIII. 

What  a  drop !     She's  not  little,  no 

minion  like  me  ! 
That's  why  she  insnared  him :  this 

never  will  free 
The  soul  from  those  masculine  eyes, 

—  say,  "  No  !  " 
To  that  pulse's  magnificent  come  and 

go. 


50 


GOLD  HAIR. 


For  only  last  night,  as  they  whispered, 
I  brought 

My  own  eyes  to  bear  on  her  so,  that 
I  thought 

Could  I  keep  them  one-half  minute 
fixed,  she  would  fall 

Shrivelled;  she  fell  not;  yet  this  does 
it  all ! 

x. 

Not  that  I  bid  you  spare  her  the  pain ; 

Let  death  be  felt  and  the  proof  re- 
main : 

Brand,  burn  up,  bite  into  its  grace  — 

He  is  sure  to  remember  her  dying 
face ! 

XI. 

Is  it  done?  Take  my  mask' off !  Nay, 
be  not  morose  ; 

It  kills  her,  and  this  prevents  seeing 
it  close  : 

The  delicate  droplet,  my  whole  for- 
tune's fee ! 

If  it  hurts  her,  beside,  can  it  ever  hurt 
me? 

XII. 

Now,  take  all  my  jewels,  gorge  gold 

to  your  fill, 
You  may  kiss  me,  old  man,  on  my 

mouth  if  you  will ! 
But  brush  this  dust  off  me,  lest  horror 

it  brings 
Ere  I  know  it  —  next  moment  I  dance 

at  the  King's ! 


GOLD   HAIR: 

A   STORY   OF   PORNIC. 

I. 

OH,  the  beautiful  girl,  too  white, 
Who  lived  at  Pornic  down  by  the 

sea, 
Just  where  the  sea  and  the   Loire 

unite ! 

And  a  boasted  name  in  Brittany 
She  bore,  which  I  will  not  write. 


Too  white,  for  the  flower  of  life  is 

red  ; 

Her    flesh'  was    the    soft    seraphic 
screen 


Of  a  soul  that  is  meant  (her  parents 

said) 
To  just  see  earth,  and  hardly  be 

seen, 
And  blossom  in  heaven  instead. 


Yet  earth  saw  one  thing,  one   how 

fair ! 
One  grace  that  grew  to  its  full  on 

earth  : 
Smiles  might  be  sparse  on  her  cheek 

so  spare, 
And  her  waist  want  half  a  girdle's 

girth, 
But  she  had  her  great  gold  hair. 


Hair,  such  a  wonder  of  flix  and  floss, 
Freshness  and  fragrance  —  floods  of 

it,  too ! 
Gold,  did  I  say?    Nay,  gold's  mere 

dross  : 
Here,  Life  smiled,  "  Think  what  I 

meant  to  do  !  " 
And  Love  sighed,  "  Fancy  my  loss  I ' 

v. 
So,  when  she  died,  it  was  scarce  more 

strange 
Than    that,    when    some    delicate 

evening  dies, 
And  you  follow  its  spent  sun's  pallid 

range, 
There's  a  shoot  of  color  startles  the 

skies 
"With  sudden,  violent  change,  — 


That,  while  the  breath  was  nearly  to 

seek, 
As  they  put  the  little  cross  to  her 

lips, 
She  changed  ;  a  spot  came  out  on  hei 

cheek, 

A  spark  from  her  eye  in  mid-eclipse. 
And  she  broke  forth,  "  I  must  speak ! 


"  Not  my  hair ! "  made  the  girl  her 

moan  — 

"  All  the  rest  is  gone  or  to  go  ; 
But  the  last,  last  grace,  my  all,  my 

own, 
Let  it  stay  in  the  grave,  that  the 

ghosts  may  know ! 
Leave  my  poor  gold  hair  alone !  " 


GOLD   HAIR. 


51 


The  passion  thus  vented,  dead  lay  she: 
Her  parents  sobbed  their  worst  on 

that, 
All  friends  joined  in,   nor  observed 

degree  : 
For  indeed  the  hair  was  to  wonder 

at, 
As  it  spread —  not  flowing  free, 


But  curled  around  her  brow,  like  a 

crown, 
And  coiled  beside  her  cheeks,  like  a 

cap, 
And    calmed    about    her    neck  —  ay, 

down 
To  her  breast,  pressed  flat,  without 

a  gap 
I'  the  gold,  it  reached  her  gown. 

x. 

All  kissed  that  face,  like  a  silver  wedge 
'Mid   the  yellow  wealth,  nor   dis- 
turbed its  hair  : 

E'en  the  priest  allowed  death's  privi- 
lege, 

As  he  planted  the  crucifix  with  care 
On  her  breast,  'twixt  edge  and  edge. 


And  thus  was  she  buried,  inviolate 
Of  body  and  soul,  in  the  very  space 

By  the  altar  ;  keeping  saintly  state 
In  Pornic  church,  for  her  pride  of 
race, 

Pure  life  and  piteous  fate. 


And  in  after-time  would  your  fresh 

tear  fall, 
Though  your  mouth  might  twitch 

with  a  dubious  smile, 
As  they  told  you  of  gold  both  robe 

and  pall, 
How  she  prayed  them  leave  it  alone 

a  while, 
So  it  never  was  touched  at  all. 


Years  flew ;  this  legend  grew  at  last 
The  life  of  the  lady;  all  she  had 

done, 

All  been,  in  the  memories  fading  fast 
Of  lover  and  friend,  was  summed  in 

one 
Sentence  survivors  passed  : 


To  wit,  she  was  meant  for  heaven, 

not  earth  ; 
Had   turned    an   angel  before  the 

time  : 
Yet,  since  she  was  mortal,  in  such 

dearth 
Of  frailty,  all  you  could  count  a 

crime 
Was  —  she  knew  her  gold  hair's  worth. 


At  little  pleasant  Pornic  church, 
It  chanced,  the  pavement  wanted 
repair, 

Was  taken  to  pieces:  left  in  the  lurch, 
A  certain  sacred  space  lay  bare, 

And  the  boys  began  research. 


'Twas  the  space  where  our  sires  would 

lay  a  saint, 

A  benefactor,  —  a  bishop,  suppose, 
A     baron     with     armor-adornments 

quaint, 
Dame  with  chased  ring  and  jewelled 

rose, 
Things  sanctity  saves  from  taint ; 


So  we  come  to  find  them  in  after-days 
When    the    corpse  is  presumed  to 

have  done  with  gauds 
Of  use  to  the  living,  in  many  ways  : 
For  the  boys  get  pelf,  and  the  town 

applauds, 
And  the  church  deserves  the  praise. 

XVIII. 

They  grubbed  with  a  will :   and  at 

length  —  O  cor 
Humamtm,  pectora   caeca,    and    the 

rest !  — 
They  found  —  no  gaud  they  were  pry. 

ing  for, 
No  ring,  no  rose,  but  —  who  would 

have  guessed  ?  — 
A  double  Louis-d'or ! 


Here  was  a  case  for  the  priest :  he 

heard, 
Marked,  inwardly  digested,  laid 


GOLD   HAIR. 


Finger  on  nose,  smiled,  "  A  little  bird 
Chirps  in  my  ear  :  "  then,  "  Bring 

a  spade, 
Dig  deeper  !  "  —  he  gave  the  word. 


And  lo,  whan  they  came  to  the  coffin- 
lid, 
Or  rotten  planks  which  composed  it 

once, 
Why,  there  lay  the  girl's  skull  wedged 

amid 
A  mint  of  money,  it  served  for  the 

nonce 
To  hold  in  its  hair-heaps  hid  ! 

XXI. 

Hid  there?    Why?     Could  the  girl 

be  wont 
(She  the  stainless  soul)  to  treasure 

up 
Money,   earth's  trash    and    heaven's 

affront  ? 

Had  a  spider  found  out  the  com- 
munion-cup, 
Was  a  toad  in  the  christening-font  ? 


XXII. 

Truth  is  truth  :  too  true  it  was. 
Gold  !    She  hoarded  and  hugged  it 

first, 
Longed  for  it,  leaned  o'er  it,  loved  it 

—  alas  — 
Till  the  humor  grew  to  a  head  and 

burst, 
And  she  cried,  at  the  final  pass,  — 


"  Talk  not  of  God,  my  heart  is  stone  ! 
Nor  lover  nor  friend  —  be  gold  for 

bothl 

Gold  I  lack  ;  and,  my  all,  my  own, 
It  shall  hide  in  my  hair.     I  scarce 

die  loth 
If  they  let  my  hair  alone  !  " 


Louis-d'ors,  some  six  times  five, 
And  duly  double,  every  piece. 
Now,  do  you  see  ?    With  the  priest  to 

shrive, 
With  parents  preventing  her  soul's 

release 
By  kisses  that  kept  alive,  — 


xxv. 

With  heaven's  gold  gates    about  to 

ope, 

With  friends'  praise,  gold-like,  lin- 
gering still, 
An  instinct  had  bidden  the  girl's  hand 

grope 
For  gold,  the  true  sort  —  "Gold  in 

heaven,  if  you  will  ; 
But  I  keep  earth's  too,  I  hope." 


Enough  !    The  priest  took  the  grave's 

grim  yield  : 
The  parents,  they  eyed  that  price  of 

sin 
As  if  thirty  pieces  lay  revealed 

On  the  place  to  bury  strangers  in, 
The  hideous  Potter's  Field. 

XXVII. 

But     the     priest     bethought     him : 

"  '  Milk  that's  spilt ' 
—  You    know    the    adage !    Watch 

and  pray  ! 
Saints  tumble  to  earth  with  so  slight  a 

tilt! 
It  would  build  a  new  altar;   that, 

we  may  ! " 
And  the  altar  therewith  was  built. 


Why  I  deliver  this  horrible  verse  ? 
As  the  text  of  a  sermon,  which  now 

I  preach. 

Evil  or  good  may  be  better  or  worse 
In  the  human  heart,  but  the  mix- 
ture of  each 
Is  a  marvel  and  a  curse. 

XXIX. 

The  candid  incline  to  surmise  of  late 
That  the  Christian    faith    may  be 
false,  I  find  ; 

For  our  Essays-and-Reviews'  debate 
Begins  to  tell  on  the  public  mind, 

And  Colenso's  words  have  weight : 

XXX. 

I  still,  to  suppose  it  true,  for  my  part, 
See  reasons  and  reasons  ;  this,  to 

begin  : 

'Tis  the  faith  that    launched    point- 
blank  her  dart 

At  the  head  of  a  lie  — taught  Origi- 
nal Sin, 
The  Corruption  of  Man's  Heart. 


"  Ages  ago,  a  lady  there. 
At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East."  —  Page  53. 


THE   STATUE   AND    THE   BUST. 


THE  STATUE  AND  THE 
BUST. 

THERE'S   a   palace   in   Florence,  the 
world  knows  well, 
a  statue   watches   it   from  the 


square, 

And  this  story  of  both  do  our  towns- 
men tell. 

A-ges  ago,  a  lady  there, 
At  the  farthest  window  facing  the  East 
Asked,  "  Who  rides  by  with  the  royal 
air?" 

The  bridesmaids'  prattle  around  her 

ceased  ; 

She  leaned  forth,  one  on  either  hand  : 
They  saw  how  the  blush  of  the  bride 

increased  — 

They  felt  by  its  beats  her  heart  ex- 

pand — 
As  one  at  each  ear  and  both  in  a 

breath 
Whispered,  "  The  Great  Duke  Fer- 

dinand." 

That   selfsame    instant,    underneath, 
The  Duke  rode  past  in  his  idle  way, 
Empty    and    line,    like    a    swordless 
sheath. 

Gay  he  rode,  with  a  friend  as  gay, 
Till  he  threw  his  head  back  —  "Who 

is  she  ?  " 
—  "  A  bride  the  Riccardi  brings  home 

to-day." 

Hair  in  heaps  l?.y  heavily 
Over  a  pale  brow  spirit-pure  — 
Carved   like   the   heart  of   the   coal- 
black  tree, 

Crisped  like  a  war-steed's  encolure  — 
And  vainly  sought  to  dissemble  her 

eyes 
Of  the  blackest  black  our  eyes  endure. 

And  lo,  a  blade  for  a  knight's  emprise 
Filled   the    fine  empty  sheath  of   a 

man,  — 
The  Duke  grew   straightway   brave 

and  wise. 

He  looked  at  her,  as  a  lover  can  . 
She  looked  at  him,  as  one  who  awakes: 
The  past  was  a  sleep,  and  her  life 
began. 


Now,  love  so  ordered  for  both  theii 

sakes, 

A  feast  was  held,  that  selfsame  night. 
In  the  pile  which  the  mighty  shadow 

makes. 

(For  Via  Larga  is  three-parts  light, 
But  the  palace  overshadows  one, 
Because  of  a  crime  which  may  God 
requite  ! 

To  Florence  and  God  the  wrong  was 

done, 
Through  the  first  republic's  murder 

there 
By  Cosimo  and  his  cursed  son.) 

The  Duke  (with  the  statue's  face  in 
the  square) 

Turned,  in  the  midst  of  his  multi- 
tude, 

At  the  bright  approach  of  the  bridal 
pair. 

Face  to  face  the  lovers  stood 
A  single  minute  and  no  more, 
While  the  bridegroom  bent  as  a  man 
subdued  — 

Bowed  till  his  bonnet  brushed  the 
floor  — 

For  the  Duke  on  the  lady  a  kiss  con- 
ferred, 

As  the  courtly  custom  was  of  yore. 

In  a  minute  can  lovers  exchange  a 

word  ? 
If  a  word  did  pass,  which  I  do  not 

think, 
Only  one  out  of  the  thousand  heard. 

That  was  the  bridegroom.    At  day's 

brink 

He  and  his  bride  were  alone  at  last 
In  a  bed-chamber  by  a  taker's  blink. 

Calmly  he  said  that  her  lot  was  cast, 
That  the  door  she  had  passed  was 

shut  on  her 
Till  the  final  catafalque  repassed. 

The  world  meanwhile,  its  noise  and 

stir, 
Through  a  certain  window  facing  the 

East, 
She  could  watch  like  a  convent's 

chronicler. 


THE   STATUE  AND    THE  BUST. 


Since  passing  the  door  might  lead  to 

a  feast, 
And  a  feast  might  lead  to  so  much 

beside, 
He,  of  many  evils,  chose  the  least. 

"  Freely  I  choose  too,"  said  the  bride  — 
"  Your  window  and  its  world  suffice," 
Replied  the  tongue,  while  the  heart 
replied  — 

"  If  I  spend  the  night  with  that  devil 

twice, 
May  his  window  serve  as  my  loop  of 

hell 
"Whence    a   damned    soul    looks    on 

paradise  ! 

"  I  fly  to  the  Duke  who  loves  me  well, 
Sit  by  his  side  and  laugh  at  sorrow 
Ere  I  count  another  ave-bell. 

"  'T  is  only  the  coat  of  a  page  to  bor- 
row, 

And  tie  my  hair  in  a  horse-boy's  trim, 
And  I  save  my  soul  —  but  not  to-mor- 
row "  — 

(She    checked   herself    and   her   eye 

grew  dim) 

"  My  father  tarries  to  bless  my  state  : 
I  must   keep   it   one   day  more   for 

him. 

"  Is  one  day  more  so  long  to  wait  ? 
Moreover  the  Duke  rides  past,  I  know ; 
We  shall  see  each  other,  sure  as  fate." 

She  turned  on   her  side   and  slept. 

Just  so ! 

So  we  resolve  on  a  thing,  and  sleep  : 
So  did  the  lady,  ages  ago. 

That  night  the  Duke  said,  "Dear  or 

cheap 
As  the  cost  of  this  cup  of  bliss  may 

prove 
To  body  or  soul,  I  will  drain  it  deep." 

And  on  the  morrow,  bold  with  love, 
He  beckoned  the  bridegroom  (close  on 

call, 

As  his  duty  bade,  by  the  Duke's  al- 
cove) 

And  smiled,  "  'Twas  a  very  funeral, 
Your  lady  will  think,  this  feast  of 

ours, — 
A  shame  to  efface,  whate'er  befall ! 


"What  if  we  break  from  the  Arno 

bowers, 

And  try  if  Petraja,  cool  and  green, 
Cure  last  night's  fault  with  this  morn- 
ing's flowers?  " 

The  bridegroom,  not  a  thought  to  be 

seen 

On  his  steady  brow  and  quiet  mouth, 
Said,   "Too   much   favor  for  me   sc 

mean! 

"  But,  alas!  my  lady  leaves  the  South; 
Each  wind  that  comes  from  the  Apen- 

nine 
Is  a  menace  to  her  tender  youth  : 

"  Nor  a  way  exists,  the  wise  opine, 
If   she    quits   her  palace   twice   this 

year, 
To  avert  the  flower  of  life's  declj.ne." 

Quoth  the  Duke,  "  A  sage  and  a  kind- 
ly fear. 

Moreover  Petraja  is  cold  this  spring: 
Be  our  feast  to-night  as  usual  here!  " 

And  then  to  himself — "  Which  night 

shall  brinff 
Thy  bride  to  her  lover's  embraces, 

fool  — 
Or  I  am  the  fool,  and  thou  art  the 

king ! 

"Yet  my  passion  must  wait  a  night, 

nor  cool  — 
For  to-night  the  envoy  arrives  from 

France 
Whose  heart  I  unlock  with  thyself, 

my  tool. 

"  I  need  thee  still  and  might  miss  per- 
chance. 

To-day  is  not  wholly  lost,  beside, 
With  its  hope  of  my  lady's  counte- 
nance : 

"For  I  ride  —  what  should  I  do  but 

ride? 

And,  passing  her  palace,  if  I  list, 
May  glance  at  its  window  —  well  be- 
tide !  " 

So  said,  so  done:  nor  the  lady  missed 
One  ray  that  broke  from  the  ardent 

brow, 
Nor  a  curl  of  the  lips  where  the  spirit 

kissed. 


THE   STATUE   AND    THE   BUST. 


Be  sure  that  each  renewed  the  vow, 
No  morrow's  sun  should  arise  and  set 
And  leave  them  then  as  it  left  them 
now. 

But  next  day  passed,  and  next  day  yet, 
With  still  fresh  cause  to  wait  one  day 

more 
Ere  each  leaped  over  the  parapet. 

And  still ,  as  love's  brief  morning  wore, 
With  a  gentle  start,  half  smile,  half 

sigh, 

They  found  love  not  as  it  seemed  be- 
fore. 

They  thought  it  would  work  infalli- 
bly, 

But  not  in  despite  of  heaven  and 
earth  : 

The  rose  would  blow  when  the  storm 
passed  by. 

Meantime  they  could  profit,  in  win- 
ter's dearth, 

By  store  of  fruits  that  supplant  the 
rose  : 

The  world  and  its  ways  have  a  certain 
worth  : 

And  to  press  a  point  while  these  op- 
pose 

Were  simple  policy;  better  wait : 
We  lose  no  friends  and  we  gain  no 
foes. 

Meantime,  worse  fates  than  a  lover's 

fate, 

Who  daily  may  ride  and  pass  and  look 
Where  his  lady  watches  behind  the 

grate ! 

And  she  —  she  watched   the   square 

like  a  book 

Holding  one  picture  and  only  one, 
Which  daily  to  find  she  undertook  : 

When  the  picture  was  reached  the 

book  was  done, 
And  she  turned  from  the  picture  at 

night  to  scheme 
Of  tearing  it  out  for  herself  next  sun. 

So  weeks  grew  months,  years;  gleam 

by  gleam 
The  glory  dropped  from  their  youth 

and  love, 
And  both  perceived  they  had  dreamed 

a  dream  ; 


Which  hovered  as  dreams  do,  still 
above  : 

But  who  can  take  a  dream  for  a  truth  ? 

Oh,  hide  our  eyes  from  the  next  re- 
move ! 

One  day  as  the  lady  saw  her  youth 
Depart,   and   the   silver  thread  that 

streaked 
Her  hair,  and,  worn  by  the  serpent's 

tooth, 

The  brow  so  puckered,  the  chin  so 

peaked, — 

And  wondered  who  the  woman  was, 
Hollow-eyed  and  haggard-cheeked 

Fronting  her  silent  in  the  glass  — 
"  Summon  here,"  she  suddenly  said, 
"  Before  the  rest  of  my  old  self  pass, 

"  Him,  the  Carver,  a  hand  to  aid, 
Who  fashions  the  clay  no  love  will 

change, 
And  fixes  a  beauty  never  to  fade. 

"  Let  Robbia's  craft  so  apt  and  strange 
Arrest  the  remains  of  young  and  fair, 
And  rivet   them  while   the   seasons 
range. 

"Make  me  a  face  on  the  window 

there, 

Waiting  as  ever,  mute  the  while, 
My  love  to  pass  below  in  the  square  ! 

"  And  let  me  think  that  it  may  beguile 
Dreary  days  which    the    dead  must 

spend 
Down   in  their  darkness  under  the 

aisle, 

"  To  say, '  What  matters  it  at  the  end  ? 
I  did  no  more  while  my  heart  was 

warm 
Than  does  that  image,  my  pale-faced 

friend.' 

"  Where  is  the  use  of  the  lip's  red 

charm, 
The  heaven  of  hair,  the  pride  of  the 

brow, 
And  the  blood  that  blues  the  inside 

arm  — 

"  Unless  we  turn,  as  the  soul  knows 

how, 

The  earthly  gift  to  an  end  divine  ? 
A  lady  of  clay  is  as  good,  I  trow." 


56 


THE   STATUE  AND    THE  BUST. 


But  long  ere  Robbia's  cornice,  fine 
With  flowers  and  fruits  which  leaves 

inlace, 
Was    set  where    now  is   the  empty 

shrine  — 

(And,  leaning  out  of  a  bright  blue 

space, 
As  a  ghost  might  lean  from  a  chink  of 

sky, 
The  passionate  pale  lady's  face  — 

Eying  ever,  with  earnest  eye 
And  quick-turned  neck  at 'its  breath- 
less stretch, 
Some  one  who  ever  is  passing  by  — ) 

The  Duke  had  sighed  like  the  simplest 

wretch 
In    Florence,    "Youth  — my    dream 

escapes  ! 
Will  its  record  stay  !  "    And  he  bade 

them  fetch 

Some     subtle     moulder    of     brazen 

shapes  — 
"  Can  the  soul,  the  will,  die  out  of  a 

man 
Ere  his  body  finds  the  grave  that 

gapes  ? 

"  John  of  Douay  shall  effect  my  plan, 
Set  me  on  horseback  here  aloft, 
Alive,  as  the  crafty  sculptor  can, 

"  In  the  very  square  I  have  crossed  so 

oft: 
That  men  may  admire,  when  future 

suns 
Shall  touch  the  eyes  to  a  purpose  soft, 

"  While  the  mouth  and  the  brow  stay 

brave  in  bronze  — 

Admire  and  say,  '  When  he  was  alive 
How    he    would    take   his    pleasure 

once ! ' 

"  And  it  shall  go  hard  but  I  contrive 
To  listen  the  while,  and  laugh  in  my 

tomb 
At  idleness  which  aspires  to  strive." 


So  !    While  these  wait  the  trump  of 

doom, 

How  do  their  spirits  pass,  I  wonder, 
Nights  and  days  in  the  narrow  room  ? 


Still,  I  suppose,  they  sit  and  ponder 
What  a  gift  life  was,  ages  ago, 
Six  steps  out  of  the  chapel  yonder. 

Only  they  see  not  God,  I  know, 

Nor  all  that  chivalry  of  his, 

The  soldier-saints  who,  row  on  row, 

Burn  upward  each  to  his  point  of 
bliss  — 

Since,  the  end  of  life  being  mani- 
fest, 

He  had  burned  his  way  through  the 
world  to  this. 

I  hear  you  reproach,  "  But  delay  was 

best, 
For  their  end  was  a  crime." —  Oh! 

a  crime  will  do 
As  well,  I  reply,  to  serve  for  a  test, 

As    a    virtue     golden    through    and 

through, 

Sufficient  to  vindicate  itself 
And  prove  its  worth  at  a  moment's 

view  ! 

Must  a  game  be  played  for  the  sake  of 
pelf? 

Where  a  button  goes,  'twere  an  epi- 
gram 

To  offer  the  stamp  of  the  very  Guelph. 

The  true  has  no  value  beyond  the 
sham  : 

As  well  the  counter  as  coin,  I  sub- 
mit, 

When  your  table's  a  hat,  and  your 
prize,  a  dram. 

Stake  your  counter  as  boldly  every 

whit, 
Venture  as  warily,  use  the  same 

skill, 
Do  your  best,  whether  winning  or  los 

ing  it, 

If  you  choose  to  play  !  —  is  my  princi- 
ple. 

Let  a  man  contend  to  the  uttermost 
For  his  life's  set  prize,  be  it  what  it 
will! 

The  counter,  our  lovers  staked,  was 

lost 

As  surely  as  if  it  were  lawful  coin  : 
And  the  sin  I  impute  to  each  frustrate 

ghost 


LOVE  AMONG    THE   RUINS. 


Is,  the  unlit  lamp  and  the  ungirt  loin, 
Though  the  end  in  sight  was  a  vice,  I 

say. 

You  of  the  virtue  (we  issue  join) 
How  strive  you  ?    De.  te,  fabula .' 


LOVE    AMONG    THE   RUINS. 


WHERE  the  quiet-colored  end  of  even- 
ing smiles, 

Miles  and  miles, 

On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our 
sheep 

Half-asleep 

Tinkle    homeward  through  the  twi- 
light, stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop  — 
Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and 

gay 

(So  they  say), 

Of    our    country's    very    capital,   its 
prince, 

Ages  since, 

Held  his  court  in,  gathered  councils, 
wielding  far 
Peace  or  war. 


Now,  —  the    country  does    not   even 
boast  a  tree, 

As  you  see, 

To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  cer- 
tain rills 

From  the  hills 

Intersect  and  give  a  name  to  (else 
they  run 

Into  one), 

Where  the  <lom<  ".  and  daring  palace 
shot  its  spires 
Up  like  fires 

O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a 
wall 

Bounding  all, 

Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on 
nor  be  pressed, 
Twelve  abreast. 


And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see, 
of  grass 

Never  was  ! 

Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time, 
o'er-spreads 
And  embeds 


Every    vestige  of    the  city,  guessed 
alone, 

Stock  or  stone  — 

Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed 
joy  and  woe 
Long  ago  ; 

Lust  of  glory  pricked  their  hearts  up. 
dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame  ; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike, 
the  gold 
Bought  and  sold. 


Now,  —  the   single   little  turret  that 
remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  the  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 

While  the  patching  houseleek's  head 
of  blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks  — 
Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower 
in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 

And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the 
chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 

And   the  monarch  and  his  minions 
and  his  daTnes 
Viewed  the  games. 


And  I  know  —  while  thus  the  quiet- 
colored  eve 

Smiles  to  leave 

To  their  folding,  all  our  many  tink- 
ling neece 

In  such  peace, 

And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistin- 
guished gray 

Melt  away  — 

That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yellow 
hair 

Waits  me  there 

In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers 
caught  soul 

For  the  goal, 

When   the   king  looked,  where  she 
looks  now,  breathless,  dumb 
Till  I  come. 


But  he  looked  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 

All  the  mountains  topped  with  tem- 
ples, all  the  glades 

Colonnades, 


58 


TIME'S  REVENGES. 


All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts, 
—  and  then, 

All  the  men ! 

When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not, 
she  will  stand, 
Either  hand 

On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the 
first  embrace 
Of  my  face, 

fire  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight 
and  speech 
Each  on  each. 


In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fight- 
ers forth 

South  and  North, 

And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen 
pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 

Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in 
full  force  — 

Gold,  of  course. 

O  heart !  O  blood  that  freezes,  blood 
that  burns ! 

Earth's  returns 

For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and 
sin ! 

Shut  them  in, 

With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories 
and  the  rest ! 
Love  is  best. 


TIME'S  REVENGES. 

I'VE  a  Friend,  over  the  sea  ; 

I  like  him,  but  he  loves  me. 

It  all  grew  out  of  the  books  I  write  ; 

They  find  such  favor  in  his  sight 

That  he  slaughters  you  with  savage 
looks 

Because  you  don't  admire  my  books. 

He  does  himself  though,  —  and  if  some 
vein 

Were  to  snap  to-night  in  this  heavy 
brain, 

To-morrow  month,  if  I  lived  to  try, 

Round  should  I  just  turn  quietly, 

Or  out  of  the  bedclothes  stretch  my 
hand 

Till  I  found  him,  come  from  his  for- 
eign land 

To  be  my  nurse  in  this  poor  place, 

And  make  my  broth  and  wash  my 
face 


And  light  my  fire  and,  all  the  while, 
Bear    with     his     old    good-humored 

smile 
That  I  told  him  "  Better  have  kept 

away 
Than  come  and  kill  me,  night  and 

day, 
With,  worse  than  fever  throbs  and 

shoots, 

The  creaking  of  his  clumsy  boots." 
I  am  as  sure  that  this  he  would  do, 
As  that  Saint  Paul's  is  striking  two. 
And  I  think  I  rather  .  .  .  woe  is  me ! 

—  Yes,  rather  should  see  him  than 

not  see, 

If  lifting  a  hand  would  seat  him  there 
Before  me  in  the  empty  chair 
To-night,  when  my  head  aches  indeed, 
And  I  can  neither  think  nor  read, 
Nor  make  these  purple  fingers  hold 
The  pen :  this  garret's  freezing  cold  ! 

And  I've  a  Lady  —  there  he  wakes 
The   laughing   fiend   and   prince   of 

snakes 

Within  me,  at  her  name,  to  pray 
Fate  send  some  creature  in  the  way 
Of  my  love  for  her,  to  be  down-torn, 
Upthrust  and  outward-borne, 
So  I  might  prove  myself  that  sea 
Of  passion  which  I  needs  must  be  ! 
Call  my  thoughts  false  and  my  fancies 

quaint, 
And  my  style  infirm  and  its  figures 

faint, 
All  the  critics  say,  and  more  blame 

yet, 

And  not  one  angry  word  you  get. 
But,  please  you,  wonder  I  would  put 
My  cheek  beneath  that  lady's  foot 
Rather  than  trample  under  mine 
The  laurels  of  the  Florentine, 
And  you   shall   set    how  the  Devil 

spends 

A  fire  God  gave  for  other  ends  ! 
I  tell  you,  I  stride  up  and  down 
This  garret,  crowned  with  love's  best 

crown, 

And  feasted  with  love's  perfect  feast, 
To  think  I  kill  for  her,  at  least, 
Body  and  soul  and  peace  and  fame, 
Alike    youth's    end    and    manhood's 

aim, 

—  So  is  my  spirit,  as  flesh  with  sin, 
Filled  full,  eaten  out  and  in 

With  the  face  of  her,  the  eyes  of  her, 

The  lips,  the  little  chin,  the  stir 

Of  shadow  round  her  mouth ;  and  she 

—  I'll  tell  you,  —  calmly  would  decree 


WARING. 


59 


That  I  should  roast  at  a  slow  fire, 
If  that  would  compass  her  desire 
And  make  her  one  whom  they  invite 
To  the  famous  ball  to-morrow  night. 

There  may  be  heaven  ;  there  must  be 

hell; 
Meantime,  there  is  our  earth  here  — 

well! 


WARING. 


I. 


WHAT'S  become  of  Waring 
Since  he  gave  us  all  the  slip, 
Chose  land-travel  or  seafaring, 
Boots  and  chest  or  staff  and  scrip, 
Rather  than  pace  up  and  down 
Any  longer  London  town  ? 


Who'd  have  guessed  it  from  his  lip 
Or  his  brow's  accustomed  bearing, 
On  the  night  he  thus  took  ship 
Or  started  landward  ?  —  little  caring 
For  us,  it  seems,  who  supped  together 
(Friends  of  his  too,  I  remember) 
And  walked  home  through  the  merry 

weather 

The  snowiest  in  all  December. 
I  left  his  arm  that  night  myself 
For  what's-his-name's,  the  new  prose- 
poet 
Who  wrote  the  book    there   on  the 

shelf  — 

How,  forsooth,  UTS  I  to  know  it 
If  Waring  me;\nt  to  glide  away 
Like  a  ghost  at  break  of  day  ? 
Never  looked  he  half  so  gay  ! 


He  was  prouder  than  the  Devil : 
How  he  must  have  cursed  our  revel ! 
Ay,  and  many  other  meetiiigs, 
Indoor  visits,  outdoor  greetings 
As  up  and  down  he  paced  this  Lon- 
don, 
With  no  work  done,  but  great  works 

undone, 

Where  scarce  twenty  knew  his  name. 
Why  not,  then,  have  earlier  spoken, 
Written,  bustled  ?    Who's  to  blame 
If  your  silence  kept  unbroken  ? 


"  True,  but  there  were  sundry  jot- 
tings, 

Stray-leaves,  fragments,  blurs  and 
blottings, 

Certain  first  steps  were  achieved 

Already  which  "  —  (is  that  your  mean- 
ing?) 

"  Had  well  borne  out  whoe'er  believed 

In  more  to  come ! "  But  who  goes 
gleaning 

Hedge-side  change-blades,  while  ftill- 
sheaved 

Stand  cornfields  by  him  ?  Pride,  o'er- 
weening 

Pride  alone,  puts  forth  such  claims 

O'er  the  day's  distinguished  names. 


Meantime,  how  much  I  loved  him, 

I  find  out  now  I've  lost  him. 

I  who  cared  not  if  I  moved  him, 

Who  could  so  carelessly  accost  him, 

Henceforth  never  shall  get  free 

Of  his  ghostly  company, 

His  eyes  that  just  a  little  wink 

As  deep  I  go  into  the  merit 

Of  this  and  that  distinguished  spirit  — 

His  cheeks'  raised  color,  soon  to  sink, 

As  long  I  dwell  on  some  stupendous 

And  tremendous  (Heaven  defend  us!) 

Monstr'-inform'-ingens-horrend-ous 

Demoniaco-seraphic 

Penman's  latest  piece  of  graphic. 

Nay,  my  very  wrist  grows  warm 

With  his  dragging  weight  of  arm. 

E'en  so,  swimmingly  appears, 

Through  one's  after-supper  musings, 

Some  lost  lady  of  old  years 

With  her  beauteous  vain  endeavor 

And  goodness  unrepaid  as  ever; 

The  face,  accustomed  to  refusings, 

We,  puppies  that  we  were  .  .  .  Oh, 

never 

Surely,  nice  of  conscience,  scrupled 
Being  aught  like  false,  forsooth,  to? 
Telling  aught  but  honest  truth  to  ? 
What  a  sin,  had  we  centupled 
Its  possessor's  grace  and  sweetness  ! 
No  !  she.  heard  in  its  completeness 
Truth,  for  truth's  a  weighty  matter, 
And,  truth  at  issue,  we  can't  flatter  ! 
Well,  'tis  done  with;  she's  exempt 
From    damning  us   through   such   & 

sally ; 

And  so  she  glides,  as  down  a  valley, 
Taking  up  with  her  contempt, 
Past  our  reach;  and  in,  the  flowers 
Shut  her  unregarded  hours. 


WARING. 


Oh,    could    I    have    him    back    once 

more, 

This  Waring,  but  one-half  day  more  ! 
Back,  with  the  quiet  face  of  yore, 
So  hungry  for  acknowledgment 
Like  mine  !    I'd  fool  him  to  his  bent. 
Feed,  should  not  he,  to  heart's  con- 
tent ? 

I'd  say,  "to  only  have  conceived, 
Planned  your  great  works,  apart  from 

progress, 

Surpasses  little  works  achieved  !  " 
I'd  lie  so,  I  should  be  believed. 
I'd  make  such  havoc  of  the  claims 
Of  the  day's  distinguished  names 
To  feast  him  with,  as  feasts  an  ogress 
Her     feverish     sharp-toothed     gold- 
crowned  child  ! 

Or  as  one  feasts  a  creature  rarely 
Captured  here,  unreconciled 
To  capture  ;  and  completely  gives 
Its  pettish  humors  license,  barely 
Requiring  that  it  lives. 

VI. 

Ichabod, Ichabod, 
The  glory  is  departed  ! 
Travels  Waring  East  away  ? 
Who,  of  knowledge,  by  hearsay, 
Reports  a  man  upstarted 
Somewhere  as  a  god, 
Hordes  grown  European-hearted, 
Millions  of  the  wild  made  tame 
On  a  sudden  at  his  fame  ? 
In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar? 
Or  who  in  Moscow,  towards  the  Czar, 
With  the  demurest  of  footfalls 
Over  the  Kremlin's  pavement  bright 
With  serpentine  and  syenite, 
Steps,  with  five  other  generals 
That  simultaneously  take  snuff, 
For  each  to  have  pretext  enough 
And  kerchiefwise  unfold  his  sash 
Which,  softness'  self,  is  yet  the  stuff 
To  hold  fast  where  a  steel  chain  snaps, 
And  leave  the  grand  white  neck  no 

gash  ? 

Waring  in  Moscow,  to  those  rough 
Cold    northern    natures    borne    per- 
haps, 

Like  the  lambwhite  maiden  dear 
From  the  circle  of  mute  kings 
Unable  to  repress  the  tear, 
Each  as  his  sceptre  down  he  flings, 
To  Dian's  fame  at  Taurica, 
Where  now  a  captive  priestess,  she 
alwav 


Mingles    her  tender   grave   Hellenic 

speech 

With  theirs,  tuned  to  the  hailstone- 
beaten  beach  : 
As    pours    some    pigeon,    from    the 

myrrhy  lands 

Rapt  by  the  whirlblast  to  fierce  Scyth- 
ian strands 

Where  breed  the  swallows,  her  melo- 
dious cry 

Amid  their  barbarous  twitter  ! 
In    Russia  ?      Never !      Spain   were 

fitter ! 

Ay,  most  likely  'tis  in  Spain 
That  we  and  Waring  meet  again 
Now,  while  he  turns  down  that  cool 

narrow  lane 

Into  the  blackness,  out  of  grave  Ma- 
drid 
All  fire  and  shine,  abrupt  as  when 

there's  slid 

Its  stiff  gold  blazing  pall 
From  some  black  coffin-lid. 
Or,  best  of  all, 
I  love  to  think 

The  leaving  us  was  just  a  feint ; 
Back  here  to  London  did  he  slink, 
And  now  works  011  without  a  wink 
Of  sleep,  and  we  are  on  the  brink 
Of  something  great  in  fresco-paint : 
Some  garret's  ceiling,  walls  and  floor, 
Up  and  down  and  o'er  and  o'er 
He  splashes,  as  none  splashed  before 
Since  great  Caldara  Polidore. 
Or  Musio  means  this  land  of  ours 
Some  favor  yet,  to  pity  won 
By  Purcell  from  his  Rosy  Bowers,  — 
"Give  me  my  so-long  promised  son, 
Let  Waring  end  what  I  begun  !  " 
Then  down  he  creeps  and  out  he  steals, 
Only  when  the  night  conceals 
His  face  ;  in  Kent  'tis  cherry-time, 
Or  hops  are  picking  :  or  at  prime 
Of  March  he  wanders  as,  too  happy, 
Years  ago  when  he  was  young, 
Some    mild   eve    when   woods  grew 

sappy, 

And  the  early  moths  had  sprung 
To  life  from  many  a  trembling  sheath 
Woven  the  warm  boughs  beneath  ; 
While  small  birds  said  to  themselves 
What  should  soon  be  actual  song, 
And  young  gnats,  by  tens  and  twelves 
Made  as  if  they  were  the  throng 
That  crowd  around  and  carry  aloft 
The  sound  they  have  nursed,  so  sweet 

and  pure, 

Out  of  a  myriad  noises  soft, 
Into  a  tone  that  can  endure 


WARING. 


Arnid  the  noise  of  a  July  noon 
When  all  God's  creatures  crave  their 

boon, 

All  at  once,  and  all  in  tune, 
And  get  it,  happy  as  Waring  then, 
Having  first  within  his  ken 
What  a  man  might  do  with  men  : 
And  far  too  glad,  in  the  even-glow, 
To  mix  with  the  world  he  meant  to 

take 

Into  his  hand,  he  told  you,  so  — 
And  out  of  it  his  world  to  make, 
To  contract  and  to  expand 
As  he  shut  or  oped  his  hand. 
O  Waring  !  what's  to  really  be  ? 
A  clear  stage  and  a  crowd  to  see  ! 
Some  Garrick,  say,  out  shall  not  he 
The  heart  of  Hamlet's  mystery  pluck  ? 
Or,  where  most  unolean  beasts  are 

rife, 
Some  Junius  —  am    I   right?  —  shall 

tuck 
His  sleeve,  and  forth  with  flaying- 

knife ! 

Some  Chatterton  shall  have  the  luck 
Of  calling  Rowley  into  life  ! 
Some  one  shall  somehow  run  a  muck 
With  this  old  world,  for  want  of  strife 
Sound  asleep.    Contrive,  contrive 
To  rouse  us,  Waring  !    Who's  alive  ? 
Our  men  scarce  seem  in  earnest  now. 
Distinguished  names  !  —  but 'tis,  some- 
how, 

As  if  they  played  at  being  names 
Still    more    distinguished,    like    the 

games 

Of  children.    Turn  our  sport  to  ear- 
nest 

With  a  visage  of  the  sternest ! 
Bring  the  real  times  back,  confessed 
Still  better  than  our  very  best ! 


n. 


'•  When  I  last  saw  Waring"  .  .  . 
(How  all  turned  to  him  who  spoke  ! 
You  saw  Waring  ?    Truth  or  joke  ? 
In  land-travel  or  sea- faring  ?) 


"  We  were  sailing  by  Triest 

Where  a  day  or  two  we  harbored  : 

A  sunset  was  in  the  West, 

When,  looking  over  the  vessel's  side, 

One  of  our  company  espied 

A  sudden  speck  to  larboard. 


And  as  a  sea-duck  flies  and  swims 
At  once,  so  came  the  light  craft  up, 
With  its  sole  lateen  sail  that  trims 
And  turns  (the  water  round  its  rims 
Dancing,  as  round  a  sinking  cup) 
And  by  us  like  a  fish  it  curled, 
And  drew  itself  up  close  beside, 
Its.  great  sail  on  the  instant  furled, 
And  o'er  its  thwarts  a  shrill  voice 

cried 

(A  neck  as  bronzed  as  a  Lascar's) 
'  Buy  wine  of  us,  you  English  Brig  ? 
Or  fruit,  tobacco  and  cigars? 
A  pilot  for  you  to  Triest  ? 
Without  one,  look  you  ne'er  so  big, 
They'll  never  let  you  up  the  bay  ! 
We  natives  should  know  best.' 
I  turned,  and    'just    those   fellows' 

way,' 
Our  captain   said,   '  The    'long-shore 

thieves 
Are  laughing  at  us  in  their  sleeves.' 


"In  truth,  the   boy  leaned  laughing 

back  ; 

And  one  half-hidden  by  his  side 
Under  the  furled  sail,  soon  I  spied, 
With  great  grass  hat   and    kerchiei 

black, 
Who    looked    up    with    his    kingly 

throat, 
Said    somewhat,     while     the     othe* 

shook 

His  hair  back  from  his  eyes  to  look 
Their  longest  at  us  ;  then  the  boat, 
I  know  not  how,  turned  sharplj 

round, 

Laying  her  whole  side  on  the  sea 
As  a  leaping  fish  does  ;  from  the  lee 
Into  the  weather,  cut  somehow 
Her  sparkling  path  beneath  our  bow, 
And  so  went  off,  as  with  a  bound, 
Into  the  rosy  and  golden  half 
O'  the  sky,  to  overtake  the  sun 
And  reach   the  shore,  like  the  sea- 
calf 

Its  singing  cave  ;  yet  I  caught  one 
Glance  ere  away  the  boat  quite 

passed, 

And  neither  time  nor  toil  could  mar 
Those  features  :  so  I  saw  the  last 
Of    Waring!"  — You?      Oh,     nevei 

star 

Was  lost  here  but  it  rose  afar  ! 
Look  East,  where  whole  new  thou- 
sands are  ! 
In  Vishnu-land  what  Avatar? 


HOME   THOUGHTS,   FROM  ABROAD. 


HOME   THOUGHTS,   FROM 
ABROAD. 


OH,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's 

there, 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees, 

some  morning,  unaware, 
That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush- 
wood sheaf 
Bound  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny 

leaf, 
While    the    chaffinch    sings    on    the 

orchard  bough 
In  England  —  now  ! 
And  after  April,  when  May  follows 
And  the  white-throat  buiids,  and  all 

the  swallows  ! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree 

in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the 

clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops  —  at  the  bent 

spray's  edge  — 
That's  the  wise  thrush  :  he  sings  each 

song  twice  over 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could 

recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with 

hoary  dew, 
And  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes 

anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's 

dower 

—  Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon- 
flower  ! 


THE  ITALIAN  IN  ENGLAND. 

THAT  second  time  they  hunted  me 
From  hill  to  plain,  from  shore  to  sea, 
And  Austria,  hounding  far  and  wide 
Her  blood-hounds  through  the  coun- 
tryside 
Breathed    hot   and    instant    on    my 

trace. — 

I  made  six  days  a  hiding-place 
Of  that  dry  green  old  aqueduct 
Where  I  and  Charles,  when  boys,  have 

plucked 

The  fire-flies  from  the  roof  above, 
Bright  creeping  through  the  moss  they 
love  : 


—  How  long  it  seems  since  Charles 

was  lost ! 
Six    days    the    soldiers    crossed   and 

crossed 

The  country  in  my  very  sight ; 
And  when  that  peril  ceased  at  night, 
The  sky  broke  out  in  red  dismay 
With  signal  fires  ;  well,  there  I  "lay 
Close  covered  o'er  in  my  recess, 
Up  to  the  neck  in  ferns  "and  cress, 
Thinking  on  Metternich  our  friend, 
And  Charles's  miserable  end, 
And    much    beside,    two    davs ;    the 

third, 

Hunger  o'ercame  me  when  I  heard 
The  peasants  from  the  village  go 
To  work  among  the  maize  ;  you  know , 
With  us  in  Lombardy,  they  bring 
Provisions  packed  on  mules,  a  string, 
With  little  bells  that  cheer  their  task, 
And  casks,  and  boughs  on  every  cask 
To    keep    the    sun's    heat    from    the 

wine  ; 

These  I  let  pass  in  jingling  line, 
And,  close  on  them,  dear  noisy  crew, 
The  peasants  from  the  village,' too  ; 
For  at  the  very  rear  would  troop 
Their  wives  and  sisters  in  a  group 
To  help,  I  knew ;   when   these    had 

passed, 

I  threw  my  glove  to  strike  the  last, 
Taking  the  chance  :  she  did  not  start, 
Much  less  cry  out,  but  stooped  apart, 
One  instant  rapidly  glanced  round, 
And  saw  me  beckon  from  the  ground  : 
A  wild    bush    grows   and  hides  my 

crypt ; 
She  picked  my  glove  up  while  she 

stripped 

A  branch  off,  then  rejoined  the  rest 
With  that;  my  glove  lay  in  her  breast: 
Then    I    drew    breath ;    they   disap- 

peared  : 
It  was  for  Italy  I  feared. 

An  hour,  and  she  returned  alone 
Exactly  where  my  glove  was  thrown. 
Meanwhile  came  many  thoughts  ;  on 

me 

Rested  the  hopes  of  Italy  ; 
I  had  devised  a  certain  tale 
Which,  when  'twas  told  her,  could 

not  fail 

Persuade  a  peasant  of  its  truth  ; 
I  meant  to  call  a  freak  of  youth 
This  hiding,  and  give  hopes  of  pay, 
And  no  temptation  to  betray. 
But  when  I  saw  that  woman's  face, 
Its  calm  simplicity  of  grace. 


THE   ITALIAN   IN   ENGLAND. 


Our  Italy's  own  attitude 

In  which  she  walked  thus  far,  and 

stood, 

Planting  each  naked  foot  so  firm, 
To  crush  the  snake  and    spare    the 

worm  — 

At  first  sight  of  her  eyes,  I  said, 
"  I  am  that  man  upon  whose  head 
They  fix  the  price,  because  I  hate 
The  Austrians  over  us  :  the  State 
Will   give   you    gold  —  oh,    gold    so 

much  !  — 

If  you  betray  me  to  their  clutch, 
And  be  your  death,  for  aught  I  know, 
If  once  they  find  you  saved  their  foe. 
Now,  you  must  bring  me  food  and 

drink, 

And  also  paper,  pen  and  ink, 
And  carry  safe  what  I  shall  write 
To  Padua,  which  you'll  reach  at  night 
Before  the  duomo  shuts  ;  go  in, 
And  wait  till  Tenebne  begin  ; 
Walk  to  the  third  confessional, 
Between  the  pillar  and  the  wall, 
And  kneeling  whisper,  Whence  comes 

peace ? 

Say  it  a  second  time,  then  cease  ; 
And  if  the  voice  inside  returns, 
From  Christ  and  Freedom;  what  con- 
cerns 

The  cause  of  Peace?  —  for  answer,  slip 
My  letter  where  you  placed  your  lip  ; 
Then  come  back  happy  :  we  have  done 
Our  mother  service  —  I,  the  son, 
As  you  the  daughter  of  our  land  !  " 

Three  mornings  more,  she  took  her 

stand 
In   the    same  place,  with  the  same 

eyes  : 

I  was  no  surer  of  sunrise 
Than  of  her  coming  :  we  conferred 
Of  her  own  prospects,  and  I  heard 
She  had  a  lover —  stout  and  tall, 
She  said  —  then  let  her  eyelids  fall, 
"He  could  do  much"  —  as  if  some 

doubt 
Entered    her   heart, —  then,    passing 

out, 

"  She  could  not  speak  for  others,  who 
Had    other    thoughts ;     herself    she 

knew :  " 
And  so  she  brought  me  drink  and 

food. 

After  four  days,  the  scouts  pursued 
Another  path  ;  at  last  arrived 
The  help  my  Paduan  friends  contrived 
To  furnish  ine  :  she  brought  the  news. 
For  the  first  time  I  could  not  choose 


But  kiss  her  hand,  and  lay  my  own 
Upon    her    head  — "  This    faith    was 

shown 

To  Italy,  our  mother  ;  she 
Uses  my  hand  and  blesses  thee." 
She  followed  down  to  the  sea-shore  ; 
I  left  and  never  saw  her  more. 

How  very  long  since  I  have  thought 
Concerning  —  much  less  wished  for  — 

augHt 

Beside  the  good  of  Italy, 
For  which  I  live  and  mean  to  die  ! 
I  never  was  in  love  ;  and  since 
Charles  proved  false,  what  shall  now 

convince 

My  inmost  heart  I  have  a  friend  ? 
However,  if  I  pleased  to  spend 
Real  wishes  on  myself  —  say,  three  — 
I  know  at  least  what  cne  should  be. 
I  would  grasp  Metternich  until 
I  felt  his  red  wet  throat  distil 
In  blood  through  these  two  hands. 

And  next, 

—  Nor  much  for  that  am  I  perplexed  — 
Charles,  perjured  traitor,  for  his  part, 
Should  die  slo%v  of  a  broken  heart 
Under  his  new  employers.    Last 

—  Ah!  there,  what  should  I  wish? 

For  fast 

Do  I  grow  old  and  out  of  strength. 
If  I  resolved  to  seek  at  length 
My  father's  house  again,  how  scared 
They  all  would  look,  and  unprepared! 
My  brothers  live  in  Austria's  pay 

—  Disowned  me  long  ago,  men  say  ; 
And  all  my  early  mates  who  used 
To  praise  me  so  —  perhaps  induced 
More  than  one  early  step  of  mine  — 
Are  turning  wise  :  while  some  opine 
"  Freedom  grows  license,"  some  sus- 
pect 

"  Haste  breeds  delay,"  and  recollect 
They  always  said,  such  premature 
Beginnings  never  could  endure  ! 
So,  with  a  sullen  "  All's  for  best," 
The  land  seems  settling  to  its  rest. 
I  think  then,  I  should  wish  to  stand 
This  evening  in  that  dear,  lost  land, 
Over  the  sea  the  thousand  miles, 
And  know  if  yet  that  woman  smiles 
With   the   calm   smile ;   some   little 

farm 
She  lives  in  there,  no  doubt :  what 

harm 

If  I  sat  on  the  door-side  bench, 
And  while  her  spindle  made  a  trend* 
Fantastically  in  the  dust, 
Inquired  of  all  her  fortunes  —  just 


64 


THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY. 


Her  children's  ages  and  their  names, 
And    what    may    be    the    husband's 

aims 
For   each    of    them.     I'd    talk    this 

out, 
And  sit  there,  for  an  hour  about, 


Then  kiss  her  hand  once  more,  and 

lay 
Mine  on  her  head,  and  go  my  way. 

So  much  for  idle  wishing  —  how 
It  steals  the  time  !    To  business  now. 


THE   ENGLISHMAN   IN  ITALY. 

PIANO  DI  SORRENTO. 

FORTU,  Fortii,  my  beloved  one,  sit  here  by  my  si'de, 

On  my  knees  put  up  both  little  feet !    I  was  sure,  if  I  tried, 

I  could  make  you  laugh  spite  of  Scirocco.    Now,  open  your  eyes, 

Let  me  keep  you  amused,  till  he  vanish  in  black  from  the  skies, 

With  telling  my  memories  over,  as  you  tell  your  beads  ; 

All  the  Plain  saw  me  gather,  I  garland  —  the  flowers  or  the  weeds. 

Time  for  rain  !  for  your  long  hot  dry  autumn  had  networked  with  brown 
The  white  skin  of  each  grape  on  the  bunches,  marked  like  a  quail's  crown, 
Those  creatures  you  make  such  account  of,  whose  heads,  —  specked  with 

white 

Over  brown  like  a  great  spider's  back,  as  I  told  you  last  night,  — 
Your  mother  bites  off  for  her  supper.    Red-ripe  as  could  be, 
Pomegranates  were  chapping  and  splitting  in  halves  on  the  tree. 
And  betwixt  the  loose  walls  of  great  liintstone,  or  in  the  thick  dust 
On  the  path,  or  straight  out  of  the  rock-side,  wherever  could  thrust 
Some  burnt  sprig  of  bold  hardy  rock-flower  its  yellow  face  up, 
For  the  prize  were  great  butterflies  fighting,  some  five  for  one  cup. 
So,  I  guessed,  ere  I  got  up  this  morning,  what  change  was  in  store, 
By  the  quick  rustle-down  of  the  quail-nets  which  woke  me  before 
I  could  open  my  shutter,  made  fast  with  a  bough  and  a  stone, 
And  look  through  the  twisted  dead  vine-twigs,  sole  lattice  that's  known. 
Quick  and  sharp  rang  the  rings  down  the  net-poles,  while,  busy  beneath, 
Your  priest  and  his  brother  tugged  at  them,  the  rain  in  their  teeth. 
And  out  upon  all  the  flat  house-roofs,  where  split  figs  lay  drying, 
The  girls  took  the  frails  under  cover  :  nor  use  seemed  in  trying 
To  get  out  the  boats  and  go  fishing,  for,  under  the  cliff, 
Fierce  the  black  water  frothed  o'er  the  blind  rock.    No  seeing  our  skiff 
Arrive  about  noon  from  Amalfi  !  —  our  fisher  arrive, 
And  pitch  down  his  basket  before  us,  all  trembling  alive, 
With  pink  and  gray  jellies,  your  sea-fruit ;  you  touch  the  strange  lumps, 
And  mouths  gape  there,  eyes  open,  all  manner  of  horns  and  of  humps, 
Which  only  the  fisher  looks  grave  at,  while  round  him  like  imps, 
Cling  screaming  the  children  as  naked  and  brown  as  his  shrimps  ; 
Himself  too  as  bare  to  the  middle  —  you  see  round  his  neck 
The  string  and  its  brass  coin  suspended,  that  saves  him  from  wreck. 
But  to-day  not  a  boat  reached  Salerno  :  so  back,  to  a  man, 
Came  our  friends,  with  whose  help  in  the  vineyards  grape-harvest  began. 
In  the  vat,  half-way  up  in  our  house-side,  like  blood  the  juice  spins, 
While  your  brother  all  bare-legged  is  dancing  till  breathless  he  grins 
Dead-beaten  in  effort  on  effort  to  keep  the  grapes  under, 
Since  still,  when  he  seems  all  but  master,  in  pours  the  fresh  plunder 
From  girls  who  keep  coming  and  going  with  basket  on  shoulder, 
And  eyes  shut  against  the  rain's  driving  ;  your  girls  that  are  older, — 


THE    ENGLISHMAN   IN   ITALY. 


For  under  the  hedges  of  aloe,  and  where,  on  its  bed 

Of  the  orchard's  black  mould,  the  love-apple  lies  pulpy  and  red, 

All  the  young  ones  are  kneeling  and  filling  their  laps  with  the  snails 

Tempted  out  by  this  first  rainy  weather,  —  your  best  of  regales, 

As  to-night  will  be  proved  to  my  sorrow,  when,  supping  in  state, 

We  shall  feast  our  grape-gleaners  (two  dozen ,  three  over  one  plate) 

"With  lasagne  so  tempting  to  swallow  in  slippery  ropes, 

And  gourds  fried  in  great  purple  slices,  that  color  of  popes. 

Meantime,  see  the  grape-bunch  they've  brought  you  :  the  rain-water  slips 

O'er  the  heavy  blue  bloom  on  each  globe  which  the  wasp  to  your  lips 

Still  follows  with  fretful  persistence.    Nay,  taste,  while  awake, 

This  half  of  a  curd-white  smooth  cheese-ball  that  peels,  flake  by  flake. 

Like  an  onion,  each  smoother  and  whiter  :  next,  sip  this  weak  wine 

From  the  thin  green  glass  flask,  with  its  stopper,  a  leaf  of  the  vine  ; 

And  end  with  the  prickly  pear's  red  flesh  that  leaves  through  its  juice 

The  stony  black  seeds  on  your  pearl-teeth. 

Scirocco  is  loose  ! 

Hark,  the  quick,  whistling  pelt  of  the  olives  which,  thick  in  one's  track, 
Tempt  the  stranger  to  pick  up  and  bite  them,  though  not  yet  half  black  !  • 
How  the  old  twisted  olive-trunks  shudder,  the  medlars  let  fall 
Their  hard  fruit,  and  the  brittle  great  fig-trees  snap  off,  figs  and  all, 
For  here  comes  the  whole  of  the  tempest !  no  refuge,  but  creep 
Back  again  to  my  siile  and  my  shoulder,  and  listen  or  sleep. 

Oh  !  how  will  your  country  show  next  week,  when  all  the  vine-boughs 
Have  been  stripped  of  their  foliage  to  pasture  the  mules  and  the  cows  ? 
Last  eve,  I  rode  over  the  mountains  ;  your  brother,  my  guide, 
Soon  left  me,  to  feast  on  the  myrtles  that  offered,  each  side, 
Their  fruit-balls,  black,  glossy,  and  luscious,  — or  strip  from  the  sorbs 
A  treasure,  or,  rosy  and  wondrous,  those  hairy  gold  orbs  ! 
But  my  mule  picked  his  sure  sober  path  out,  just  stopping  to  neigh 
When  he  recognized  down  in  the  valley  his  mates  on  their  way 
With  the  fagots  and  barrels  of  water.    And  soon  we  emerged 
From  the  plain  where  the  woods  could  scarce  follow  ;  and  still,  as  we  urged 
Our  way,  the  woods  wondered,  and  left  us.    Up,  up  still  we  trudged, 
Though  the  wild  path  grew  wilder  each  instant,  and  place  was  e'en  grudged 
'Mid  the  rock-chasms  and  piles  of  loose  stones  like  the  loose  broken  teeth 
Of  some  monster  which  climbed  there  to  die,  from  the  ocean  beneath  — 
Place  was  grudged  to  the  silver-gray  fume-weed  that  clung  to  the  path, 
And  dark  rosemary  ever  a-dying,  that,  'spite  the  wind's  wrath, 
So  loves  the  salt  rock's  face  to  seaward  :  and  lentisks  as  stanch 
To  the  stone  where  they  root  and  bear  berries:  and  .  .  .  what  shows  a  branch 
Coral-colored,  transparent,  with  circlets  of  pale  seagreen  leaves  ; 
Over  all  trod  my  mule  with  the  caution  of  gleaners  o'er  sheaves. 
Still,  foot  after  foot  like  a  lady,  still,  round  after  round, 
He  climbed  to  the  top  of  Calvano  :  and  God's  own  profound 
Was  above  me,  and  round  me  the  mountains,  and  under,  the  sea, 
And  within  me  my  henrt  to  bear  witness  what  was  and  shall  be. 
Oh,  heaven  and  the  terrible  crystal !  no  rampart  excludes 
Your  eye  from  the  life  to  be  lived  in  the  blue  solitudes. 
Oh,  those  mountains,  their  infinite  movement !  still  moving  with  you  ; 
For,  ever  some  new  head  and  breast  of  them  thrusts  into  view 
To  observe  the  intruder  ;  you  see  it,  if  quickly  you  turn 

And,  before  they  escape  you,  surprise  them.    They  grudge  you  should  learn 
How  the  soft  plains  they  look  on,  lean  over  and  love  (they  pretend) 
—  Cower  beneath  them,  the  bJack  sea-pine  crouches,  the  wild  fruit-trees  bend, 
E'en  the  myrtle-leaves  curl,  shrink  and  shut :  all  is  silent  and  grave  : 
'Tis  a  sensual  and  timorous  beauty,  —  how  fair  !  but  a  slave. 


G6  THE  ENGLISHMAN  IN  ITALY. 


So,  I  turned  to  the  sea  ;  and  there  slumbered,  as  greenly  as  ever 

Those  isles  of  the  siren,  your  Galli.    No  ages  can  sever 

The  Three,  nor  enable  their  sister  to  join  them,  — half-way 

On  the  voyage,  she  looked  at  Ulysses  —  no  farther  to-day  ! 

Though  the  small  one,  just  launched  in  the  wave,  watches  breast-high  and 

steady 

From  under  the  rock  her  bold  sister,  swum  half-way  already. 
Forth,  shall  we  sail  there  together,  and  see,  from  the  sides, 
Quite  new  rocks  show  their  faces,  new  haunts  where  the  siren  abides  ? 
Shall  we  sail  round  and  round  them,  close  over  the  rocks,  though  unseen, 
That  ruffle  the  gray  glassy  water  to  glorious  green  ? 
Then  scramble  from  splinter  to  splinter,  reach  land,  and  explore, 
On  the  largest,  the  strange  square  black  turret  with  never  a  door, 
Just  a  loop  to  admit  the  quick  lizards  ?    Then,  stand  there  and  hear 
The  birds'  quiet  singing,  that  tells  us  what  life  is,  so  clear  ? 

—  The  secret  they  sang  to  Ulysses  when,  ages  ago, 

He  heard  and  he  knew  this  life's  secret,  I  hear  and  I  know. 

Ah,  see  !    The  sun  breaks  o'er  Calvano.    He  strikes  the  great  gloom 
And  flutters  it  o'er  the  mount's  summit  in  airy  gold  fume. 
All  is  over.    Look  out,  see,  the  gypsy,  our  tinker  and  smith, 
Has  arrived,  set  up  bellows  and  forge,  and  down-squatted  forthwith 
To  his  hammering  under  the  wall  there  !    One  eye  keeps  aloof 
The  urchins  that  itch  to  be  putting  his  Jew's-harp  to  proof, 
While  the  other,  through  locks  of  curled  wire,  is  watching  how  sleek 
Shines  the  hog,  come  to  share  in  the  windfall.    Chew,  abbot's  own  cheek  ! 
All  is  over.     Wake  up  and  come  out  now,  and  down  let  us  go, 
And  see  the  fine  things  got  in  order  at  church  for  the  show 
Of  the  Sacrament,  set  forth  this  evening.    To-morrow's  the  Feast 
Of  the  Rosary's  Virgin,  by  no  means  of  Virgins  the  least : 
As  you'll  hear  in  the  off-hand  discourse  which  (all  nature,  no  art) 
The  Dominican  brother,  these  three  weeks,  was  getting  by  heart. 
Not  a  pillar  nor  post  but  is  dizened  with  red  and  blue  papers  ; 
All  the  roof  waves  with  ribbons,  each  altar  ablaze  with  long  tapers. 
But  the  great  masterpiece  is  the  scaffold  rigged  glorious  to  hold 
All  the  fiddlers  and  fifers  and  drummers  and  trumpeters  bold 
Not  afraid  of  Bellini  nor  Auber  :  who,  when  the  priest's  hoarse, 
Will  strike  us  up  something  that's  brisk  for  the  feast's  second  course. 
And  then  will  the  flaxen-wigged  Image  be  carried  in  pomp 
Through  the  plain,  while,  in  gallant  procession,  the  priests  mean  to  stomp, 
All  round  the  glad  church  lie  old  bottles  with  gunpowder  stopped, 
Which  will  be,  when  the  Image  re-enters,  religiously  popped. 
And  at  night  from  the  crest  of  Calvano  great  bonfires  will  hang  : 
On  the  plain  will  the  trumpets  join  chorus,  and  more  poppers  bang. 
At  all  events,  come  —  to  the  garden,  as  far  as  the  wall ; 
See  me  tap  with  a  hoe  on  the  plaster,  till  out  there  shall  fall 
A  scorpion  with  wide  angry  nippers  ! 

—  "  Such  trifles  !  "  you  say  t 

Fortu,  in  my  England  at  home,  men  meet  gravely  to-day 
And  debate,  if  abolishing  corn-laws  be  righteous  and  wise  ! 

—  If  t'were  proper,  Scirocco  should  vanish  in  black  from  the  skies  ! 


UP  AT  A    VILLA  —  DOWN   IN   THE    CITY. 


UP  AT   A  VILLA  — DOWN  IN  THE   CITY. 

(AS  DISTINGUISHED  BY  AN  ITALIAN  PERSON  OF  QUALITY.) 

I. 

HAD  I  but  plenty  of  money,  money  enough  and  to  spare, 
The  house  for  me,  no  doubt,  were  a  house  in  the  city-square  ; 
Ah,  such  a  life,  such  a  life,  as  one  leads  at  the  window  there  ! 


Something  to  see,  by  Bacchus,  something  to  hear,  at  least ! 

There,  the  whole  day  long,  one's  life  is  a  perfect  feast ; 

While  up  at  a  villa  one  lives,  I  maintain  it,  no  more  than  a  beast. 


Well  now,  look  at  our  villa  !  stuck  like  the  horn  of  a  bull 

Just  on  a  mountain  edge  as  bare  as  the  creature's  skull, 

Save  a  mere  shag  of  a  bush  with  hardly  a  leaf  to  pull ! 

—  I  scratch  my  own,  sometimes,  to  see  if  the  hair's  turned  wool. 

IV. 

But  the  city,  oh  the  city  —  the  square  with  the  houses  !    Why  ? 

They  are  stone-faced,  white  as  a  curd,  there's  something  to  take  the  eye  ! 

Houses  in  four  straight  lines,  not  a  single  front  awry; 

You  watch  who  crosses  and  gossips,  who  saunters,  who  hurries  by; 

Green  blinds,  as  a  matter  of  course,  to  draw  when  the  sun  gets  high  ; 

And  the  shops  with  fanciful  signs  which  are  painted  properly. 

v. 

What  of  a  villa  ?    Though  winter  be  over  in  March  by  rights, 
'Tis  May  perhaps  ere  the  snow  shall  have  withered  well  off  the  heights  : 
You've  the  brown  ploughed  land  before,  where  the  oxen  steam  and  wheeze, 
And  the  hills  over-smoked  behind  by  the  faint  gray  olive-trees. 

VI. 

Is  it  better  in  May,  I  ask  you  ?    You've  summer  all  at  once  ; 

In  a  day  he  leaps  complete  with  a  few  strong  April  suns. 

'Mid  the  sharp  short  emerald  wheat,  scarce  risen  three  ringers  well, 

The  wild  tulip,  at  end  of  its  tube,  blows  out  its  great  red  bell 

Like  a  thin  clear  bubble  of  blood,  for  the  children  to  pick  and  sell. 

VII. 

Is  it  ever  hot  in  the  square  ?    There's  a  fountain  to  spout  and  splash  ! 
I7i  the  shade  it  sings  and  springs  ;  in  the  shine  such  foam-bows  flash 
On  the  horses  with  curling  fish-tails,  that  prance  and  paddle  and  pash 
Round  the  lady  atop  in  her  conch  —  fifty  gazers  do  not  abash, 
Though  all  that  she  wears  is  some  weeds  round  her  waist  in  a  sort  of  sash. 

VIII. 

All  the  year  long  at  the  villa,  nothing  to  see  though  you  linger, 
Except  yon  cypress  that  points  like  death's  lean  lifted  forefinger. 
Some  think  fireflies  pretty,  when  they  mix  i'  the  corn  and  mingle, 
Or  thrid  the  stinking  hemp  till  the  stalks  of  it  seem  a-tingle. 
Late  August  or  early  September,  the  stunning  cicala  is  shrill, 
And  the  bees  keep  their  tiresome  whine  round  the  resinous  firs  on  the  hill. 
Enough  of  the  seasons,  —  I  spare  you  the  months  of  the  fever  and  chill. 


68 


PICT  OR  1GNOTUS. 


Ere  you  open  your  eyes  in  the  city,  the  blessed  church-bells  begin  : 

No  sooner  the  bells  leave  off  than  the  diligence  rattles  in  : 

You  get  the  pick  of  the  news,  and  it  costs  you  never  a  pin. 

By  and  by  there's  the  travelling  doctor  gives  pills,  lets  blood,  draws  teeth 

Or  the  Pulcinello-trumpet  breaks  up  the  market  beneath. 

At  the  post-office  such  a  scene-picture  — the  new  play,  piping  hot ! 

And  a  notice  how,  only  this  morning,  three  liberal  thieves  were  shot. 

Above  it,  behold  the  Archbishop's  most  fatherly  of  rebukes, 

And  beneath,  with  his  crown  and  his  lion,  some  little  new  law  of  the 

Duke's ! 

Or  a  sonnet  with  flowery  marge,  to  the  Reverend  Don  So-and-so 
"Who  is  Dante,  Boccaccio,  Petrarca,  St.  Jerome,  and  Cicero, 
"  And  moreover"  (the  sonnet  goes  rhyming),  "  the  skirts  of  Saint  Paul  has 

reached, 
Having  preached  us  those  six  Lent-lectures  more  unctuous  than  ever  he 

preached." 
Noon  strikes,  —  here  sweeps  the  procession !  our  Lady  borne  smiling  and 

smart, 

"With  a  pink  gauze  gown  all  spangles,  and  seven  swords  stuck  in  her  heart ! 
Bang-whang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife  ; 
No  keeping  one's  haunches  still:  it's  the  greatest  pleasure  in  life. 


But  bless  you,  it's  dear  —  it's  dear  !  fowls,  wine,  at  double  the  rate. 
They  have  clapped  a  new  tax  upon  salt,  and  what  oil  pays  passing  the  gate 
It's  a  horror  to  think  of.    And  so,  the  villa  for  me,  not  the  city  ! 
Beggars  can  scarcely  be  choosers  :  but  still  —  ah,  the  pity,  the  pity  ! 
Look,  two  and  two  go  the  priests,  then  the  monks  with  cowls  and  sandals, 
And  the  penitents  dressed  in  white  shirts,  a-holding  the  yellow  candles  ; 
One,  he  carries  a  flag  up  straight,  and  another  a  cross  with  handles, 
And  the  Duke's  guard  brings  up  the  rear,  for  the  better  prevention  of  scan- 
dals : 

Bang-whang-whang  goes  the  drum,  tootle-te-tootle  the  fife. 
Oh,  a  day  iii  the  city-square,  there  is  no  such  pleasure  in  life  ! 


PICTOR  IGNOTUS. 

[FLORENCE,  15—.] 

I  COULD  have  painted  pictures  like 

that  youth's 
Ye  praise  so.    How  my  soul  springs 

up  !    No  bar 

Stayed  me  —  ah,  thought  which  sad- 
dens while  it  soothes ! 
—  Never  did  fate  forbid  me,  star  by 

star, 
To  outburst  on  your  night,  with  all 

my  gift 

Of  fires  from  God  :  nor  would  my 
flesh  have  shrunk 


From  seconding  my  soul,  with  eyes 

uplift 
And  wide  to  heaven,  or,  straight  like 

thunder,  sunk 
To    the    centre,    of   an    instant ;    or 

around 
Turned  calmly  and  inquisitive,  to 

scan 
The  license  and  the  limit,  space  and 

bound, 
Allowed  to  truth  made  visible  in 

man. 
And,  like  that  youth  ye  praise  so,  all 

I  saw, 

Over  the  canvas    could    my  hand 
have  flung, 


PICT  OR  IGNOTUS. 


69 


Each  face  obedient  to  its  passion's 

law, 

Each  passion  clear  proclaimed  with- 
out a  tongue : 
Whether  Hope  rose  at  once  in  all  the 

blood, 

A-tintoe  for  the    blessing    of    em- 
brace, 
Or  Rapture  drooped  the  eyes,  as  when 

her  brood 
Pull  down  the  nesting  dove's  heart 

to  its  place  ; 
Or  Confidence  lit  swift  the  forehead 

up, 
And  locked  the  mouth  fast,  like  a 

castle  braved,  — 

O  human  faces  !  hath  it  spilt,  my  cup  ? 
What  did  ye  give  me  that  I  have 

not  saved  ? 
Nor  will  I  say  I  have  not  dreamed 

(how  well !) 
Of  going — I,  in  each  new  picture, 

—  forth, 
As,    making    new   hearts   beat   and 

bosoms  swell, 
To    Pope   or    Kaiser,  East,  West, 

South,  or  North, 
Bound  for  the  calmly  satisfied  great 

State, 
Or  glad    aspiring    little    burgh,  it 

went, 
Flowers  cast  upon  the  car  which  bore 

the  freight, 
Through  old  streets  named  afresh 

from  the  event, 
Till  it  reached  home,  where  learned 

age  should  greet 
My  face,  and  youth,  the  star  not  yet 

distinct 
Above  his  hair,  lie  learning  at  my 

feet !  — 
Oh  !  thus  to  live,  I  and  my  picture, 

linked 
With  love  about,  and  praise,  till  life 

should  end, 
And  then  not  go  to    heaven,  but 

linger  here, 
Here  on  my  earth,  earth's  every  man 

my  friend, 
The  thought  grew  frightful,  'twas  so 

wildly  dear ! 
But  a  voice  changed  it.    Glimpses  of 

such  sights 
Have    scared    me,  like  the  revels 

through  a  door 

Of  some  strange  house  of  idols  at  its 
rites ! 


This  world  seemed  not  the  world  it 

was,  before  : 
Mixed  with  my  loving  trusting  ones, 

there  trooped 
.  .  .  Who    summoned    those    cold 

faces  that  begun 
To    press    on    me    and    judge    me  ? 

Though  I  stooped 
Shrinking,  as  from  the  soldiery  a 

nun, 
They  drew  me  forth,  and  spite  of  me 

.  .  .  enough ! 
These  buy  and  sell    our  pictures, 

take  and  give, 

Count  them  for  garniture  and  house- 
hold-stuff, 
And  where  they  live  needs  must 

our  pictures  live 
And  see  their  faces,  listen  to  their 

prate, 

Partakers  of  their  daily  pettiness, 
Discussed  of,  —  "  This  I  love,  or  this  I 

hate, 
This  likes  me  more,  and  this  affects 

me  less ! " 
Wherefore  I  chose  my  portion.    If  at 

whiles 
My  heart  sinks,  as  monotonous  I 

paint 
These  endless   cloisters  and  eternal 

aisles 
With  the  same  series,  Virgin,  Babe, 

and  Saint, 
With  the  same  cold  calm  beautiful 

regard, — 
At  least  no  merchant  traffics  in  my 

heart ; 
The  sanctuary's  gloom  at  least  shall 

ward 

Vain  tongues  from  where  my  pic- 
tures stand  apart : 
Only  prayer  breaks  the  silence  of  the 

shrine 
While,    blackening    in    the    daily 

candle-smoke, 
They  moulder  on   the   damp  wall's 

travertine, 
'Mid  echoes  the  light  footstep  never 

woke. 
So,  die  my  pictures !  surely,  gently 

die  ! 
O  youth  !  men    praise   so,  —  holds 

their  praise  its  worth  ?• 
Blown  harshly,  keeps  the  trump  its 

golden  cry  ? 

Tastes  sweet  the  water  with  such 
specks  of  earth  ? 


70 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 


FRA   LIPPO  LIPPI. 

I  AM    poor  brother    Lippo,  "by  your 

leave 
You  need  not  clap  your  torches  to  my 

face. 
Zooks !  what's  to  blame  ?  you  think 

you  see  a  monk  ! 
What,  'tis  past  midnight,  and  you  go 

the  rounds, 
And  here  you  catch  me  at  an  alley's 

end 
"Where    sportive    ladies    leave    their 

doors  ajar  ? 
The  Carmine's  my  cloister  :  hunt  it 

up, 
Do,  —  harry  out,  if  you  must    show 

your  zeal, 
"Whatever    rat,    there,  haps    on    his 

wrong  hole, 
And  nip  each  softling  of  a  wee  white 

mouse, 
Weke,  icckc,  that's  crept  to  keep  him 

company ! 
Aha  !  you  know  your  betters  ?   Then, 

you'll  take 
Your  hand  away  that's  fiddling  on 

my  throat, 
And    please   to   know  me  likewise. 

"Who  am  I  ? 
"Why,  one,  sir,  who  is  lodging  with  a 

friend 
Three  streets  off  —  he's  a  certain  .  .  . 

how  d'ye  call  ? 

Master — a  .  .  .  Cosimo  of  the  Medici, 
I'  the  house  that  caps  the    corner. 

Boh  !  you  were  best ! 
Remember  and  tell  me  the  day  you're 

hanged, 
How  you  affected  such    a    gullet's- 

gripe  ! 
But  you,  sir,  it  concerns  you  that  your 

knaves 

Pick  up  a  manner,  nor  discredit  you  : 
Zooks !  are  we  pilchards,  that  they 

sweep  the  streets 
And  count  fair  prize  what  comes  into 

their  net  ? 

He's  Judas  to  a  tittle,  that  man  is  ! 
Just  such  a  face!  "Why,  sir,  you  make 

amends. 

Lord,  I'm  not  angry!    Bid  your  hang- 
dogs go 
Drink  out  this  quarter-florin  to  the 

health 
Of  the  munificent  House  that  harbors 

me 
(And  many  more  beside,  lads  !  more 

beside !) 


And  all's  come  square  again.   I'd  like 

his  face  — 
His,  elbowing  on  his  comrade  in  the 

door 
"With  the  pike  and  lantern,  —  for  the 

slave  That  holds 
John  Baptist's  head  a-dangle  by  the 

hair 
"With  one  hand  ("  Look  you,  now,"  as 

who  should  say) 
And  his  weapon  in  the  other,  yet  un- 

wiped ! 
It's  not  your  chance  to  have  a  bit  of 

chalk, 
A    wood-coal    or    the    like  ?    or  you 

should  see ! 
Yes,  I'm  the  painter,  since  you  style 

me  so. 
What,  brother  Lippo's  doings,  up  and 

down, 
You  know  them,  and  they  take  you  ? 

like  enough  ! 
I   saw   the   proper  twinkle   in  your 

eye  — 
'Tell  you,  I  liked  your  looks  at  very 

first. 
Let's  sit  and  set  things  straight  now, 

hip  to  haunch. 
Here's  spring  come,  and  the  nights 

one  makes  up  bands 
To  roam  the  town  and  sing  out  car- 
nival, 

And  I've  been  three  weeks  shut  with- 
in my  mew, 
A-painting  for  the  great  man,  saints 

and  saints 
And  saints  again.    I  could  not  paint 

all  night  — 
Ouf !    I  leaned  out  of  window  for  fresh 

air. 
There  came  a  hurry  of  feet  and  little 

feet, 
A  sweep  of  lute-strings,  laughs,  and 

whifts  of  song,  — 
Flower  o'  the  broom, 
Take  away  love,  and  our  earth  is  a  tomb! 
Flower  o'  the  quince, 
I   let  Lisa  go,  and  what  good  in  life 

since  ? 
Flower    o'    the    thyme  — and.    so    on. 

Round  they  went. 
Scarce   had  they  turned  the  corner 

when  a  titter 
Like  the  skipping  of  rabbits  by  moon' 

light,  —  three  slim  shapes, 
And  a  face  that  looked  up  ...  zooks, 

sir,  flesh  and  blood 
That's  all  I'm  made  of !    Into  shreds 

it  went, 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPT. 


71 


Curtain  and  counterpane  and  cover- 
let, 

All  the  bed-furniture  —  a  dozen  knots, 
There  was  a  ladder!    Down  I  let  ray- 
self, 
Hands  and  feet,  scrambling  somehow, 

and  so  dropped, 
And  after  them.    I  came  up  with  the 

fun 
Hard  by  Saint  Lawrence,  hail  fellow, 

well  met, — 
Flower  o'  the  rose, 
If  I've  been  merry,  what  matter  who 

knows  ? 

And  so,  as  I  was  stealing  back  again, 
To  get  to  bed  and  have  a  bit  of  sleep 
Ere  I  rise  up  to-morrow  and  go  work 
On  Jerome  knocking  at  his  poor  old 

breast 
With  his  great  round  stone  to  subdue 

the  flesh, 
You  snap  me  of  the  sudden.    Ah,  I 

see  ! 
Though  your  eye  twinkles  still,  you 

shake  your  head  — 
Mine's  shaved  —  a  monk,  you  say  — 

the  sting's  in  that ! 

If  Master  Cosimo  announced  himself, 
Mum's    the    word   naturally;    but    a 

monk  ! 
Come,  what  am  I  a  beast  for  ?  tell  us, 

now  ! 

I  was  a  baby  when  my  mother  died 
And  father  died  and  left  me  in  the 

street. 
I  starved  there,  God  knows  how,  a 

year  or  two 
On  fig-skins,  melon-parings,  rinds  and 

shucks, 
Refuse  and  rubbish.    One  fine  frosty 

day, 
My   stomach    being   empty  as    your 

hat, 
The  wind  doubled  me  up  and  down  I 

went. 
Old  aunt  Lapaccia  trussed  me  with 

one  hand 

vlts  fellow  was  a  stinger,  as  I  knew), 
And   so   along   the    wall,   over   the 

bridge, 
By  the  straight  cut  to  the  convent. 

Six  words  there, 
"While    I    stood    munching  my   first 

bread  that  month  : 
"  So,  boy,  you're  minded,"  quoth  the 

good  fat  father 

Wiping  bib  own  mouth,  'twas  refec- 
tion-time, — 
"  To  quit  this  very  miserable  world  ? 


Will  you  renounce  "  .  .  .  "  the  mouth- 
ful of  bread  ?  "  thought  I ; 
By  no  means !    Brief,  they  made  a 

monk  of  me  ; 
I  did  renounce  the  world,  its  pride 

and  greed, 

Palace,  farm,  villa,  shop,  and  banking- 
house, 
Trash,  such  as  these  poor  devils  of 

Medici 
Have  given  their  hearts  to  —  all  at 

eight  years  old. 
Well,  sir,  I  found  in  time,  you  may 

be  sure, 
'Twas    not    for   nothing — the    good 

bellyful, 
The  warm  serge  and  the  rope  that 

goes  all  round, 

And  day-long  blessed  idleness  besidel 
"  Let's  see  what  the  urchin's  nt  fo-  " 

—  that  came  next. 

Not  overmuch  their  way,  I  must  con- 
fess. 
Such  a  to-do !    They  tried  me  with 

their  books : 
Lord,  they'd  have  taught  me  Latin  in 

pure  waste  ! 
Flower  o'  the  clove, 
All  the  Latin  I  construe  is,  "  Amo  "  1 

love  ' 
But,  mind  you,  when  a  boy  starves 

in  the  streets 
Eight  years  together  as  my  fortune 

was, 
Watching  folk's  faces  to  know  who 

will  fling 
The  bit  of  half-stripped  grape-bunch 

he  desires, 
And  who  will  curse  or  kick  him  for 

his  pains,  — 
Which  gentleman  processional  and 

fine, 

Holding  a  candle  to  the  Sacrament, 
Will  wink  and  let  him  lift  a  plate  and 

catch 
The   droppings  of   the  wax  to  sell 

again, 
Or  holla  for  the  Eight  and  have  him 

whipped,  — 
How  say  I?  —  nay,  which  dog  bites, 

which  lets  drop 
His  bone  from  the  heap  of  offal  in  the 

street,  — 
Why,  soul  and  sense  of  him  grow 

sharp  alike, 
He  learns  the  look  of  things,  and  none 

the  less 

For   admonition   from    the    hunger- 
pinch. 


72 


ERA   L1PPO  L1PPL 


I  had  a  store  of  such  remarks,  be 
sure, 

Which,  after  I  found  leisure,  turned 
to  use  : 

I  drew  men's  faces  on  my  copy-books, 

Scrawled  them  within  the  antipho- 
uary's  marge, 

Joined  legs  and  arms  to  the  long 
music-notes, 

Found  eyes  and  nose  and  chin  for  A's 
and  B's, 

And  made  a  string  of  pictures  of  the 
w^rld 

Betwixt  the  ins  and  outs  of  verb  and 
noun, 

On  the  wall,  the  bench,  the  door. 
The  monks  looked  black. 

"Nay,"  quoth  the  Prior,  "turn  him 
out,  d'ye  say  ? 

In  no  wise.  Lose  a  crow  and  catch 
a  lark. 

"What  if  at  last  we  get  our  man  of 
parts, 

We  Carmelites,  like  those  Camaldo- 
lese 

And  Preaching  Friars,  to  do  our 
church  up  fine 

And  put  the  front  on  it  that  ought  to 
be  ! " 

And  hereupon  he  bade  me  daub  away. 

Thank  you!  my  head  being  crammed, 
the  walls  a  blank, 

Never  was  such  prompt  disemburden- 
ing. 

First  every  sort  of  monk,  the  black 
and  white, 

I  drew  them,  fat  and  lean:  then,  folks 
at  church, 

From  good  old  gossips  waiting  to  con- 
fess 

Their  cribs  of  barrel-droppings,  can- 
dle-ends, — 

To  the  breathless  fellow  at  the  altar- 
foot, 

Fresh  from  his  murder,  safe  and  sit- 
ting there 

With  the  little  children  round  him  in 
a  row 

Of  admiration,  half  for  his  beard,  and 
half 

For  that  white  anger  of  his  victim's 
son 

Shaking  a  fist  at  him  with  one  fierce 
arm, 

Signing  himself  with  the  other  be- 
cause of  Christ 

(Whose  sad  face  on  the  cross  sees  only 
this 

After  the  passion  of  a  thousand  years), 


Till  some  poor  girl,  her  apron  o'er  her 

head 
(Which    the     intense     eyes     looked 

through),  came  at  eve 
On  tiptoe,  said  a  word,  dropped  in  a 

loaf, 
Her  pair  of  earrings  and  a  bunch  of 

flowers 
(The  brute  took  growling),  prayed,  and 

so  was  gone. 
I  painted  all,  then  cried,  "  'Tis  ask 

and  have  ; 
Choose,  for  more's  ready  !  "  —  laid  the 

ladder  flat, 

And  showed  my  covered  bit  of  clois- 
ter-wall. 
The  monks   closed    in  a  circle    and 

praised  loud 
Till  checked,  taught  what  to  see  and 

not  to  see, 
Being    simple  bodies,  —  "  That's  the 

very  man  ! 
Look  at  the  boy  who  stcojj.i  to  pat  the 

dog  ! 
That  woman's  like  the  Poor's  niece 

who  comes 
To  care  about  his  asthmt.  :  it's  the 

life  !  " 
But    there    my  triumph's    straw-fire 

flared  and  funked  ; 
Their  betters  took  their  turn  to  see 

and  say  : 

The  Prior  and  the  learned  pulled  a  face 
And    stopped    all    that   in  no  time. 

"  How  ?  what's  here  ? 
Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless 

us  all  ! 
Faces,  arms,  legs,  and  bodies  like  the 

true 
As  much  as  pea  and  pea  !  it's  devil's 

game  ! 
Your  business  is  not  to  catch  men  with 

show, 

With  homage  to  the  perishable  clay. 
But  lift  them  over  it,  ignore  it  all, 
Make  them  forget  there's  such  a  tiling 

as  flesh. 
Your  business  is  to  paint  the  souls  of 

men  — 
Man's  soul,  and  it's  a  fire,  smoke  .  .  . 

no,  it's  not  .  .  . 
It's  vapor  done  up  like  a  new-born 

babe  — 
(In  that  shape  when  you  die  it  leaves 

your  rnouth), 
It's  .  .  .  well,  what  matters  talking, 

it's  the  soul  ! 
Give  us  no  more  of  body  than  show* 

soul ! 


"How?  what's  here? 
Quite  from  the  mark  of  painting,  bless  us  all ! "  —  Page  72. 


FRA   LIPPO  LI  PPL 


73 


Here's  Giotto,  with  his  Saint  a-prais- 

ing  God, 
That  sets  us  praising,  —  why  not  stop 

with  him  ? 
Why  put  all  thoughts  of  praise  out  of 

our  head 
With  wonder    at    lines,   colors,  and 

what  not,  ? 
Paint  the  soul,  never  rnind  the  legs 

and  arms  ! 

Huh  all  out,  try  at  it  a  second  time  ! 
Oh  !  that  white  smallish  female  with 

the  breasts, 
She's  just  my  niece  .  .  .  Herodias,  I 

would  say,  — 
Who  went  and  danced,  and  got  men's 

heads  cut  off ! 
Have  it  all  out !  "    Now,  is  this  sense, 

Task? 
A  fine  way  to  paint  soul,  by  painting 

body 
So  ill,  the  eye  can't  stop  there,  must 

go  farther 
And  can't  fare  worse  !    Thus,  yellow 

does  for  white 
When    what    you    put    for    yellow's 

simply  black, 

And  any  sort  of  meaning  looks  in- 
tense 
When    all   beside  itself   means  and 

looks  naught. 
Why  can't  a  painter  lift  each  foot  in 

turn, 
Left  foot  and  right  foot,  go  a  double 

step, 
Make  his  flesh  liker  and  his  soul  more 

like, 

Both  in  their  order  ?    Take  the  pret- 
tiest face, 
Tli3  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  patron  saint  — 

is  it  so  pretty 
You  can't  discover  if  it  means  hope, 

fear, 
Sorrow  or  joy  ?  won't  beauty  go  with 

these  ? 
Suppose  I've  made  her  eyes  all  right 

and  blue, 
Can't  I  take  breath  and  try  to  add 

life's  flash, 
And  then  add  soul  and  heighten  them 

threefold  ? 
Or  say  there's  beauty  with  no  soul 

at  all  — 
(I  never  saw  it  —  put  the    case  the 

same — ) 
If  you  get  simple  beauty  and  naught 

else, 
You  get  about  the  best  thing   God 

invents  : 


That's  somewhat :  and  you'll  find  the 

soul  you  have  missed, 
Within    yourself,   when    you    return 

him  thanks. 
"  Rub  all  put !  "    Well,  well,  there's 

my  life,  in  short, 
And  so  the  thing  has  gone  on  ever 

since. 
I'm  grown    a   man    no    doubt,  I've 

broken  bounds  : 
You  should  not  take  a  fellow  eight 

years  old 
And  make  him  swear  to  never  kiss  the 

girls. 
I'm  my  own  master,  paint  now  as  I 

please  — 
Having   a   friend,    you    see,  in   the 

Corner-house  ! 
Lord,  it's  fast  holding  by  the  rings  in 

front  — 
Those  great  rings  serve  more  purposes 

than  just 

To  plant  a  flag  in,  or  tie  up  a  horse  ! 
And  yet  the  old  schooling  sticks,  the 

old  grave  eyes 
Are  peeping  o'er  my  shoulder  as  I 

work, 
The  heads  shake    still  —  "It's    art's 

decline,  my  son  ! 
You're  not  of  the  true  painters,  great 

and  old  ; 
Brother   Angelico's  the  man,   you'll 

find  ; 
Brother    Lorenzo    stands    his  single 

peer : 
Fag  on  at  flesh,  you'll  never  make  the 

third  !  " 

Flower  o'  the  pine, 
You  keep  your  mistr  .  .  .  manners,  and 

I'll  stick  to  mine ! 
I'm  not  the  third,  then :    bless    us, 

they  must  know  ! 
Don't  you  think  they're  the  likeliest 

to  know, 
They  with  their  Latin  ?   So,  I  swallow 

my  rage, 
Clinch    my    teeth,    suck   my  lips  in 

tight,  and  paint 
To  please  them  —  sometimes  do,  and 

sometimes  don't ; 
For,  doing  most,  there's  pretty  sure  to 

come 
A  turn,  some  warm  eve  finds  me  at 

my  saints  — 
A  laugh,  a  cry,  the  business  of  the 

world  — 

(Flower  o'  the  peach, 
Death  for  us  all,  and  his  own  l\fe  for 

each .') 


FRA  LIPPO  LIPPI. 


And  my  whole  soul  revolves,  the  cup 

runs  over, 
The  world  and  life's  too  big  to  pass  for 

a  dream, 
And  I  do  these  wild  things  in  sheer 

despite, 
And  play  the  fooleries  you  catch  me 

at 
In  pure  rage  !    The    old  mill-horse, 

out  at  grass 
After  hard  years,  throws  up  his  stiff 

heels  so, 
Although  the  miller  does  not  preach 

to  him 
The  onlv  good  of  grass  is  to  make 

chaff. 
What  would  men  have  ?   Do  they  like 

grass  or  no  — 
May  they  or  mayn't  they  ?  all  I  want's 

the  thing 

Settled  forever  one  way.    As  it  is, 
You  tell  too  many  lies  and  hurt  your- 
self : 
You  don't  like  what  you  only  like  too 

much, 
You  do  like  what,  if  given  you  at 

your  word, 

You  find  abundantly  detestable. 
For  me,   I  think  I  speak  as  I  was 

taught. 
I  always  see   the  garden,  and  God 

there 
A-making  man's  wife  :  and,  my  lesson 

learned, 

The  value  and  significance  of  flesh, 
1    can't    unlearn  ten  minutes  after- 
wards. 
You  understand  me  :  I'm  a  beast,  I 

know. 

But  see,  now  —  why,  I   see   as  cer- 
tainly 
As  that  the  morning-star's  about  to 

shine, 
What  will  hap  some  day.     We've  a 

youngster  here 
Comes  to  our  convent,  studies  what  I 

do, 
Slouches  and  stares  and  lets  no  atom 

drop : 
His  name  is  Guidi  —  he'll  not  mind 

the  monks  — 
They  call  him  Hulking  Tom,  he  lets 

them  talk  — 
He  picks  my  practice  up  — he'll  paint 

apace, 
I  hope  so  —  though  I  never  live  so 

long, 
i  know  what's  sure  to  follow.    You 

be  judge ! 


You   speak   no   Latin  more  than  I, 

belike  ; 
However,    you're    my    man,    you've 

seen  the  world 

—  The  beauty  and  the  wonder  and 

the  power, 
The  shapes  of    things,  their  colors, 

lights,  and  shades, 
Changes,  surprises,  —  and  God  made 

it  all ! 

—  For  what  ?    Do  you  feel  thankful, 

ay  or  no, 
For    this    fair    town's    face,    yonder 

river's  line, 
The  mountain  round  it  and  the  sky 

above, 
Much  more  the  figures  of  man,  woman, 

child, 
These  are  the  frame  to  ?    What's  it 

all  about  ? 
To  be  passed  over,  despised  ?  or  dwelt 

upon, 
Wondered  at  ?  oh,  this  last  of  course  ! 

—  you  say. 
But  why  not  do  as  well  as  say, — 

paint  these 
Just  as  thev  are,  careless  what  comes 

of  it? 
God's   works  —  paint   any  one,    and 

count  it  crime 
To  let  a  truth    slip.    Don't    object, 

"  His  works 

Are  here  already ;  nature  is  complete : 
Suppose  you  reproduce  her  —  (which 

you  can't) 
There's  no  advantage  !  you  must  beat 

her,  then." 
For,  don't  you  mark  ?  we're  made  so 

that  we  love 
First   when  we   see   them   painted, 

things  we  have  passed 
Perhaps  a  hundred  times  nor  cared  to 

see; 
And   so   they  are   better,  painted  — 

better  to  us, 
Which  is  the  same  thing.    Art  was 

given  for  that; 

God  uses  us  to  help  each  other  so, 
Lending  our  minds  out.    Have  you 

noticed,  now 
Your  cullion's  hanging  face?    A  bit 

of  chalk, 
And  trust  me  but  you  should,  though  ! 

How  much  more 
If  I  drew  higher  things  with  the  same 

truth ! 

That  were  to  take  the  Prior's  pulpit- 
place, 
Interpret  God  to  all  of  you  !    Oh,  oh- 


FRA   LIPPO   LIPPI. 


It  makes  me  mad  to  see  what  men 

shall  do 
And  we  in  our  graves  !    This  world's 

no  blot  for  us 
Nor  blank  ;  it  means  intensely,  and 

means  good  : 
To  find  its  meaning  is  my  meat  and 

drink. 
u  Ay,  but  yon  don't  so  instigate  to 

prayer  ! " 
Strikes  in    the    Prior:    "  when  your 

meaning's  plain 
It  does  not  say  to  folks  —  remember 

matins, 
Or,  mind  you    fast    next    Friday  ! " 

Why,  for  this 
What  need  of  art  at  all  ?    A  skull 

and  bones. 
Two  bits  of  stick  nailed  cross-wise, 

or,  what's  best, 
A  bell  to  chime  the  hour  with,  does 

as  well. 
I  painted  a  Saint  Lawrence  six  months 

since 
At  Prato,  splashed  the  fresco  in  fine 

style  : 
"  How  looks  my  painting,  now  the 

scaffold's  down  ?  " 

I  ask  a  brother:   "Hugely,"  he  re- 
turns— 
"  Already  not  one  phiz  of  your  three 

slaves 
"Who  turn  the  Deacon  off  his  toasted 

side, 
But's  scratched  and  prodded  to  our 

heart's  content, 
The  pious  people  have  so  eased  their 

own 
With  coming  to  say  prayers  there  in 

a  rage  : 

We  get  on  fast  to  see  the  bricks  be- 
neath* 
Expect  another  job  this  time   next 

year, 
For  pity  and   religion    grow  i'    the 

crowd  — 
Your  painting  serves  its  purpose  !  " 

Hang  the  fools ! 

—  That  is  —  you'll  not  mistake  an 

idle  word 
Spoke  in  a  huff  by  a  poor  monk,  Got 

wot 
Tasting  the  air  this  spicy  night  which 

turns 
The  unaccustomed  head  like  Chianti 

wine  ! 
Oh,  the  church  knows !  don't  misre- 

port  me,  now 


It's  natural  a  poor  monk  out  of  bounds 
Should  have  his  apt  word  to  excuse 

himself  : 
And    hearken   how  I  plot  to  make 

amends. 
I  have  bethought  me :  I  shall  paint  a 

piece 
.  .  .  There's  for  you  !    Give  me  six 

months,  then  go,  see 
Something     in     Sant'    Ambrogio's ! 

Bless  the  nuns ! 
They  want  a  cast  o'  my  office.    I  shall 

paint 
God  in  the  midst,  Madonna  and  her 

babe, 

Ringed  by  a  bowery,  flowery  angel- 
brood, 
Lilies  and  vestments  and  white  faces, 

sweet 

As  puff  on  puff  of  grated  orris-root 
When  ladies  crowd  to  church  at  mid- 
summer. 
And  then  i'  the  front,  of  course  a  saint 

or  two  — 
Saint   John,   because   he    saves   the 

Florentines, 
Saint  Ambrose,  who  puts  down    in 

black  and  white 
The  convent's  friends  and  gives  them 

a  long  day, 
And  Job,  I  must  have  him  there  past 

mistake, 
The    man   of   Uz  (and   Us   without 

the  z, 
Painters   who    need    his    patience). 

Well,  all  these 
Secured  at  their  devotion,  up  shall 

come 

Out  of  a  corner  when  you  least  ex- 
pect, 
As  one  by  a  dark  stair  into  a  great 

light, 
Music  and  talking,  who  but  Lippo ! 

Mazed,  motionless,  and  moon-struck 

—  I'm  the  man  ! 
Back  I  shrink  —  what  is  this  I  see 

and  hear  ? 
I,  caught  up  with  my  monk's  things 

by  mistake, 
My  old  serge  gown  and  rope  that  goes 

all  round, 

I,  in  this  presence,  this  pure  company  ! 
Where's  a  hole,  where's  a  corner  for 

escape  ? 
Then  steps  a  sweet  angelic  slip  of  a 

thing 
Forward,  puts  out  a  soft  palm  —  "  Nof 

so  fast ! " 


76 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO. 


—  Addresses  the  celestial  presence, 
"  nay  — 

He  made  you  and  devised  you,  after 
all, 

Though  he's  none  of  you !  Could 
Saint  John  there,  draw  — 

His  camel-hair  make  up  a  painting- 
brush  ? 

We  come  to  brother  Lippo  for  all  that, 

Iste  perfecit  opus  I "    So,  all  smile  — 

I  shuffle  sideways  with  my  blushing 
face 

Under  the  cover  of  a  hundred  wings 

Thrown  like  a  spread  of  kirtles  when 
you're  gay 

And  play  hot  cockles,  all  the  doors 
being  shut 

Till,  wholly  unexpected,  in  there  pops 

The  hot-head  husband  !  Thus  I  scut- 
tle off 

To  some  safe  bench  behind,  not  let- 
ting go 

The  palm  of  her,  the  little  lily  thing 

That  spoke  the  good  word  for  me  in 
the  nick, 

Like  the  Prior's  niece  .  .  .  Saint 
Lucy,  I  would  say. 

And  so  all's  saved  for  me,  and  for  the 
church 

A  pretty  picture  gained.  Go,  six 
months  hence  ! 

Your  hand,  sir,  and  good-by:  no 
lights,  no  lights ! 

The  street's  hushed,  aud  I  know  my 
own  way  back, 

Don't  fear  me !  There's  the  gray 
beginning.  Zooks ! 


ANDREA  DEL  SARTO. 

(CALLED  "THE  FAULTLESS  PAINT- 
ER.") 

Bur  do  not  let  us  quarrel  any  more, 
No,  my  Lucrezia  !  bear  with  me  for 

once  : 
Sit  down  and  all  shall  happen  as  you 

wish. 
You  turn  your  face,  but  does  it  bring 

your  heart  ? 
I'll  work  then  for  your  friend's  friend, 

never  fear, 
Treat  his  own  subject  after  his  own 

way, 


Fix  his  own  time,  accept  too  his  own 

price, 
And  shut  the  money  into  this  small 

hand 
When  next  it  takes  mine.    Will  it? 

tenderly  ? 
Oh,  I'll  content  him,  —  but  to-morrow, 

Love  ! 
I  often  am  much  wearier  than  you 

think, 
This  evening  more  than  usual :  and  it 

seems 
As  if — forgive  now  —  should  you  let 

me  sit 
Here  by  the  window,  with  your  hand 

in  mine, 

And  look  a  half-hour  forth  on  Fiesole, 
Both  of  one  mind,  as  married  people 

use, 

Quietly,  quietly  the  evening  through, 
I  might  get  up'to-morrow  to  my  work 
Cheerful  and  fresh  as  ever.  Let  us 

try. 
To-morrow,  how  you  shall  be  glad  for 

this! 

Your  soft  hand  is  a  woman  of  itself, 
And  mine,  the  man's  bared  breast 

she  curls  inside. 
Don't  count  the  time  lost,  neither ; 

you  must  serve 

For  each  of  the  five  pictures  we  re- 
quire : 
It  saves  a  model.    So  !  keep  looking 

so  — 
My  serpentining  beauty,   rounds  on 

rounds ! 

—  How  could  you  ever  prick  those 

perfect  ears, 
Even  to  put  the  pearl  there !  oh,  so 

sweet  — 
My  face,  my  moon,  my  everybody's 

moon, 
Which  everybody  looks  on  and  calls 

his, 
And,  I  suppose,  is  looked  on  by  in 

turn,- 
While    she  looks  —  no    one's  :    very 

dear,  no  less. 
You  smile  ?  why,  there's  my  picture 

ready  made, 
There's   what  we   painters  call  our 

harmony  ! 
A    common    grayness  silvers  every 

thing,  — 
All  in  a  twilight,  you  and  I  alike 

—  You,  at  the  point  of  your  first  pride 

in  me 

(That's  gone,  you  know)  —  but  I,  P* 
every  point ; 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO. 


t  t 


My  youth,  my  hope,  iny  art,  being  all 

toued  down 

To  yonder  sober  pleasant  Fiesole. 
There's   the   bell   clinking  from  the 

chapel-top ; 
That   length  of  convent-wall  across 

the  way 
Holds  the  trees  safer,  huddled  more 

inside  ; 
The   last   monk   leaves   the   garden; 

days  decrease, 
And  autumn  grows,  autumn  in  every 

thing. 
Eh  ?  the  whole  seems  to  fall  into  a 

shape, 

As  if  I  saw  alike  my  work  and  self 
And  all  that  I  was  born  to  be  and 

do, 
A  twilight-piece.     Love,  we  are  in 

God's  hand. 
How  strange  now,  looks  the  life  he 

makes  us  lead; 
So  free  we  seem,  so  fettered  fast  we 

are  ! 

I  feel  he  laid  the  fetter  :  let  it  lie  ! 
This    chamber,    for    example  —  turn 

your  head  — 

All  that's  behind  us  !    You  don't  un- 
derstand 

Nor  care  to  understand  about  my  art, 
But  you  can  hear  at  least  when  peo- 
ple speak  : 
And  that  cartoon,  the  second  from  the 

door 

—  It  is  the  thing,  Love!  so  such  things 

should  be  : 

Behold  Madonna!  —  I  am  bold  to  say. 
I  can  do  with  my  pencil  what  I  know, 
What  I  see,  what  at  bottom  of  my 

heart 

I  wish  for,  if  I  ever  wish  so  deep  — 
Do  easily,  too  —  when  I  say,  perfectly, 
I  do  not  boast,  perhaps:  yourself  are 

"Who  listened  to  the  Legate's  talk  last 

week  ; 
And  just  as  much  they  used  to  say  in 

France. 

At  any  rate  'tis  easy,  all  of  it ! 
No  sketches  first,  no  studies,  that's 

long  past : 
I  do  what  many  dream  of,  all  their 

lives, 

—  Dream  ?  strive  to  do,  and  agonize 

to  do, 
And  fail  in  doing.      I   could   count 

twenty  such 
On  twice  your  fingers,  and  riot  leave 

this  town, 


Who  strive  —  you  don't  know  how 

the  others  strive 
To  paint  a  little  thing  like  that  you 

smeared 
Carelessly  passing  with  your  robes 

afloat,  — 

Yet  do  much  less,  so  much  less,  Some- 
one says, 
(I  know  his  name,  no  matter)  —  so 

much  less  ! 
Well,  less  is  more,  Lucrezia :   I  ant 

judged. 
There  burns  a  truer  light  of  God  it 

them, 
In  their  vexed  beating  stuffed  and 

stopped-up  brain, 
Heart,  or  whate'er  else,  than  goes  on 

to  prompt 
This  low-pulsed  forthright  craftsman's 

hand  of  mine. 
Their  works  drop    groundward,  but 

themselves,  I  know, 
Reach  many  a  time  a  heaven  that's 

shut  to  me, 
Enter  and  take  their  place  there  sure 

enough, 
Though  they  come  back  and  cannot 

tell  the  world. 
My  works  are  nearer  heaven,  but  I 

sit  here. 
The  sudden  blood  of  these  men!  at  a 

word  — 
Praise  them,  it  boils,  or  blame  them, 

it  boils  too. 

I,  painting  from  myself  and  to  myself, 
Know   what  I  do,  am  unmoved  by 

men's  blame 
Or  their   praise  either.      Somebody 

remarks 
Morello's   outline   there    is  wrongly 

traced, 
His  hue  mistaken;  what  of  that?  or 

else, 
Rightly    traced    and  well    ordered ; 

what  of  that  ? 
Speak  as  they  please,  what  does  the 

mountain  care  ? 
Ah,  but  a  man's  reach  should  exceed 

his  grasp, 
Or  what's  a  heaven  for?  All  is  silver- 


Placid  and  perfect  with  my  art:  the 
worse  ! 

I  know  both  what  I  want  and  what 
might  gain  ; 

And  yet  how  profitless  to  know,  to 
sigh 

"  Had  I  been  two,  another  and  my- 
self. 


ANDREA   DEL   SARTO. 


Our  head  would  have  o'erlooked  the 

world  !  "    No  doubt. 
Yonder's  a  work  now,  of  that  famous 

youth 

The  Urbinate  who  died  five  years  ago. 
('Tis  copied,  George   Vasari  sent  it 

me.) 

Well,  I  can  fancy  how  he. did  it  all, 
Pouring    his    soul,    with    kings    and 

popes  to  see, 

Beaching,  that  heaven  might  so  re- 
plenish him, 
Above  and  through  his  art  —  for  it 

gives  way ; 
That  arm  is  wrongly  put  —  and  there 

again  — 
A  fault  to  pardon  in  the  drawing's 

lines, 

Its  body,  so  to  speak :  its  soul  is  right, 
He  means  right  — that,  a  child  may 

understand. 
Still,  what  an  arm!  and  I  could  alter 

it : 
But  all  the  play,  the  insight  and  the 

stretch  — 

Out  of  me,  out  of  me  !    And  where- 
fore out  ? 
Had  you  enjoined  them  on  me,  given 

me  soul, 
"We  might  have  risen  to  Rafael,  I  and 

you. 
Nay,  Love,  you  did  give  all  I  asked, 

I  think  — 
More   than   I   merit,   yes,  by   many 

times. 

But  had  you  —  oh,  with  the  same  per- 
fect brow, 

And  perfect  eyes,  and  more  than  per- 
fect mouth, 
And  the  low  voice  my  soul  hears,  as 

a  bird 
The  fowler's  pipe,  and  follows  to  the 

snare  — 
Had  you,  with  these  the  same,  but 

brought  a  mind ! 
Some  women  do  so.    Had  the  mouth 

there  urged 
"  God  and  the  glory  !  never  care  for 

gain. 
The  present  by  the  future,  what  is 

that  ? 
Live  for  fame,  side  by  side  with  Ag- 

nolo  ! 
Rafael   is   waiting :    up   to    God,    all 

three  ! " 
I  might  have  done  it  for  you.    So  it 

seems : 

Perhaps  not.    All    is   as   God   over- 
.     rules. 


Beside,  incentives  come  from  the  soul'g 

self; 
The  rest  avail  not.    "Why  do  I  need 

you  ? 

"What  wife  had  Rafael,  or  has  Agnolo  ? 
In  this  world,  who  can  do  a  thing, 

will  not ; 

And  who  would  do  it,  cannot,  I  per- 
ceive : 
Yet  the  will's  somewhat  —  somewhat, 

too,  the  power  — 
And  thus  we  half-men  struggle.    At 

the  end, 

God,  I  conclude,  compensates,  pun- 
ishes. 
'Tis  safer  for  me,  if  the  award  be 

strict, 

That  I  am  something  tinderrated  here, 
Poor   this    long  while,    despised,    to 

speak  the  truth. 
I  dared  not,  do  you  know,  leave  home 

all  day, 
For  fear  of   chancing   on   the    Paris 

lords. 
The  best  is  when  they  pass  and  look 

aside  ; 
But  they  speak  sometimes  :  I  must 

bear  it  all. 
"Well  may  they  speak  !    That  Francis, 

that  first  time, 
And  that  long  festal  year  at  Fontaine- 

bleau ! 
I  surely  then  could  sometimes  leave 

the  ground, 

Put  on  the  glory,  Rafael's  daily  wear, 
In  that  humane  great  monarch's  gold- 
en look, — 
One   finger  in   his  beard  or  twisted 

curl 
Over   his   mouth's   good   mark   that 

made  the  smile, 
One  arm  about  my  shoulder,  round 

my  neck, 
The  jingle  of  his  gold  chain  in  my 

ear, 
I  painting  proudly  with  his  breath  on 

me, 
All  his  court  round  him,  seeing  with 

his  eyes, 
Such  frank  French  eyes,  and  such  a 

fire  of  souls 
Profuse,    my    hand   kept    plying   by 

those  hearts,  — 
And,  best  of  all,  this,  this,  this  face 

beyond, 
This  in   the  background,  waiting  on 

my  work, 
To  crown   the  issue  with  a  last  re= 

ward  ! 


ANDREA   DEL    SARTO. 


79 


A  good  time,  was  it  not,  my  kingly 

days? 
And  had  you  not  grown  restless  .  .  . 

but  I  knew  — 
'Tis  done  and  past ;  'twas  right,  my 

instinct  said  ; 
Too  live  the  life  grew,  golden  and  not 

gray  : 
And  I'm  the  weak-eyed  bat  no  sun 

should  tempt 
Out  of  the  grange  whose  four  walls 

make  his  world. 

How  could  it  end  in  any  other  way  ? 
You  called  me,  and  I  came  home  to 

your  heart. 
The    triumph    was,    to    have    ended 

there  ;  then,  if 
I  reached  it  ere  the  triumph,  what  is 

lost  ? 
Let  my   hands   frame   your   face    in 

your  hair's  gold, 

You  beautiful  Lucrezia  that  are  mine  ! 
"  Rafael    did    this,    Andrea    painted 

that  ; 
The  Roman's  is  the  better  when  you 

pray, 
But  still  the  other's  Virgin  was  his 

wife  "  — 
Men  will  excuse  me.    I  am  glad  to 

judge 
Both    pictures    in     your    presence ; 

clearer  <rrows_ 

My  better  fortune,  j.  resolve  to  think. 
For,  do  you  know,  Lucrezia.  as  God 

lives, 

Said  one  day  Agnoio  his  verv  seif. 
To  Rafael  .  .      7  have  known  ;t  all 

these  years  .  .  . 
(When  the  young  man  was  flaming 

out  his  thoughts 

Upon  a  palace-wall  for  Rome  to  see, 
Too  lifted  up   in   heart   because   of 

it) 
"  Friend,  there's  a  certain  sorry  little 

scrub 
Goes    up   and   down   our   Florence, 

none  cares  how, 

Who,  were  he  set  to  plan  and  exe- 
cute 
As   you    are,    pricked    on   by   your 

popes  and  kings, 
Would   bring   the   sweat    into    that 

brow  of  yours  !  " 
To  Rafael's  !  —    And  indeed  the  arm 

is  wrong. 
I  hardly  dare  .  .  .  yet,  only  you  to 

see, 
Give  the  chalk  here  —  quick,  thus  the 

line  should  go  ! 


Ay,  but  the  soul !  he's  Rafael  !  rub  it 

out ! 
Still,  all  I  care  for,  if  he  spoke  the 

truth, 
(What    he?    why,    who    but    Michel 

Agnoio  ? 
Do    you    forget   already   words    like 

those  ? ) 
If  really  there  was  such  a  chance  si 

lost,  — 
Is,  whether  you're  —  not  grateful  — 

but  more  pleased. 
Well,  let  me  think  so.    And  you  smile 

indeed ! 
This  hour  has  been  an  hour  !    An* 

other  smile  ? 
If  you  would  sit  thus  by  me  every 

night 

I  should  work  better,  do  you  compre- 
hend ? 
I  mean  that  I  should  earn  more,  give 

you  more. 
See,  it  is  settled  dusk  now  ;  there's  a 

star  ; 
Morello's  gone,  the  watch-lights  show 

the  wall, 
The    cue-owls   speak    the    name    we 

call  them  by. 
Come  from  the  window,  love,  —  corns 

in,  at  last, 

Inside  the  melancholv  little  house 
We  built  co  oe  so  gay  witn.    God  is 

ust 
Kinsr  Francis  may  forgive  me  r  oft  at 

nights 
When  I  !iOok  up  from  minting,  eves 

tired  out. 
The  wails    become  illumined,  brick 

from  brick 
Distinct,    instead    of    mortar,    fierce 

bright  gold, 
That  gold  of  his  I  did  cement  them 

with  ! 
Let    us  but  love  each   other.    Must 

you  go  ? 
That    cousin    here  again  ?   he    waits 

outside  ? 
Must    see    you  —  you,   and   not  with 

me  ?    Those  loans  ? 
More  gaming  debts  to  pay?  you  smiled 

for  that  ? 
Well,  let  smiles  buy  me !   have  you 

more  to  spend  ? 
While  hand  and  eye  and  something 

of  a  heart 
Are  left  me,   work's  my  ware,   and 

what's  it  worth  ? 
I'll    pay    my    fancy.      Only    let    rue 

sit 


80 


THE  BISHOP  ORDERS  HIS   TOMB. 


The  gray  remainder  of  the  evening 

out, 

Idle,  you  call  it,  and  muse  perfectly 
How  I  could  paint,  were  I  but  back 

in  France, 

One  picture,  just  one  more  —  the  Vir- 
gin's face, 
Not  your's  this  time  !    I  want  you  at 

my  side 
To  hear  them  —  that  is,  Michel  Ag- 

nolo  — 
Judge  all  I  do  and   tell  you  of  its 

worth. 
Will  you  ?    To-morrow  satisfy  your 

friend. 

I  take  the  subjects  for  his  corridor, 
Finish    the   portrait   out    of   hand  — 

there,  there, 
And  throw  him  in  another  thing  or 

two 
If  he  demurs  :  the  whole  should  prove 

enough 
To  pay  for  this  same  cousin's  freak. 

Beside, 
What's  better  and  what's  all  I  care 

about, 
Get  you  the  thirteen  scudi  for  the 

ruff! 
Love,  does  that  please  you  ?    Ah,  but 

what  does  he. 

The  cousin '  what  aoes  ue  co  mease 
vou  more 

T  am  grown  oeaceru.  as  old  age  to- 
night 
regret  little.  ...  wouid  change  still 

.ess 
Since  tnere  my  past  life    lies,  why 

alter  it  ? 
The  very  wrong  to  Francis  !  —  it  is 

true 

I  took  his  coin,  was  tempted  and  com- 
plied, 
And  built  this  house  and  sinned,  and 

all  is  said. 
My  father  and  my  mother  died    of 

want. 
Well,  had  I  riches  of  my  own  ?  you 

see 
How  one  gets  rich  !     Let  each  one 

bear  his  lot. 
They  were  born  poor,  lived  poor,  and 

poor  they  died  : 
And  I  have  labored  somewhat  in  my 

time 
And  not  been  paid  profusely.    Some 

good  son 
Paint  my  Two  hundred  pictures  —  let 

him  try  1 


No  doubt,  there's  something  strikes  a 

balance.    Yes, 
You  loved  me  quite  enough,  it  seems 

to-night. 
This  must  suffice    me   here.     What 

would  one  have  ? 
In  heaven,  perhaps,  new  chances,  one 

more  chance  — 
Four  great  walls  in  the  New  Jerusa 

lem, 
Meted  on  each  side  by  the  angel's 

reed, 

For  Leonard,  Rafael,  Agnolo,  and  me 
To  cover  —  the  three  first  without  a 

wife, 
While  I  have  mine  !    So  —  still  they 

overcome 
Because  there's  still  Lucrezia,  —  as  I 

choose. 

Again  the  cousiu's   whistle !     Go, 
my  love. 


THE    BISHOP    ORDERS     HIS 
TOMB    AT     SAINT     PRAX- 


BOMB.  15— 

VANITY,  saith  the  preacher,  •vanin* 
Draw  rouna  my  ued.  :  is  Anseim  keejv 

ing  bacK  ? 
Nephews  —  sons  mine  ...  ah  God,  I 

know  not  !    Well  — 
She,   men    would  have  to    be    your 

mother  once, 
Old  Gandolf  envied  me,  so  fair  she 

was  ! 
What's  done  is  done,  and  she  is  dead 

beside, 
Dead  long   ago,  and    I    am    Bishop 

since, 
And  as  she  died  so  must  we  die  our- 

selves, 
And    thence    ye    may   perceive    the 

world's  a  dream. 
Life,  how  and  what  is  it?    As  here  I 

lie 
In  this  state-chamber,  dying  by  de- 

grees, 
Hours  and  long  hours  in   the  dead 

night,  I  ask 
"  Do  I  live,    am  I  dead  '7  :'      Peace 

peace  seems  all. 


THE  BISHOP   ORDERS  HIS   TOMB. 


Saint  Praxed's  ever  was  the  church 

for  peace  ; 
And  so,  about  this  tomb  «'.•£  mine.     I 

fought 
With  tooth  and  nail  to  save  my  niche, 

ye  know  : 

—  Old  Gandolf  cozened  me,  despite 

my  care  ; 
Shrewd  was  that  snatch  from  out  the 

corner  South 
He  graced  his  carrion  with,  God  curse 

the  same  ! 
Yet  still  my  niche  is  not  so  cramped 

but  thence 

One  sees  the  pulpit  on  the  epistle- 
side, 
And    somewhat  of    the  choir,   those 

silent  seats, 

And  up  into  the  aery  dome  where  live 
The  angels,  and  a  sunbeam's  sure  to 

lurk  ; 
And  I  shall  fill  my  slab   of    basalt 

there, 
And  'neath  my  tabernacle  take  my 

rest, 
With  those  nine  columns  round  me, 

two  and  two, 
The  odd  one  at  my  feet  where  Anselm 

stands  : 
Peach-blossom  marble  all,  the  rare, 

the  ripe 
As  fresh-poured  red  wine  of  a  mighty 

pulse. 

—  Old  Gandolf  with  his  paltry  onion- 

stone, 
Put  me  where  I  may  look  at  him ! 

True  peach, 
Rosy  and  flawless  :  how  I  earned  the 

prize  ! 
Draw  close  :  that  conflagration  of  my 

church 

—  What  then  ?    So  much  was  saved 

if  aught  were  missed  ! 
My  sons,  ye  would  not  be  my  death  ? 

Go  dig 
The  white-grape  vineyard  where  the 

oil-press  stood, 
Drop  water  gently  till    the    surface 

sink, 
And  if  ye  find  .  .  .  Ah  God,  I  know 

not,  I !  .  .  . 
Bedded  in  store  of  rotten  fig-leaves 

soft, 

And  corded  up  in  a  tight  olive-frail, 
Some  lump,  an  God,  of  lapis  lazuli, 
Big  as  a  Jew's  head  cut  off  at  the 

nape, 
Blue  as  a  vein  o'er  the   Madonna's 

breast  .  .  . 


Sons,  all    have    I    bequeathed    you, 

villas,  all, 
That  brave  Frascati   villa   with    its 

bath, 
So,  let  the  blue  lump  poise  between 

my  knees, 
Like  God  the  Father's  globe  on  both 

his  hands 
Ye  worship  in  the  Jesu  Church  so 

gay, 
For  Gandolf  shall  not  choose  but  see 

and  burst ! 
Swift  as  a  weaver's  shuttle  fleet  our 

years : 
Man  goeth  to  the  grave,  and  where  is 

he? 
Did  I  say,  basalt  for  my  slab,  sons? 

Black  — 
'Twas  ever  antique-black   I  meant ! 

How  else 
Shall  ye  contrast  my  frieze  to  come 

beneath  ? 
The  bass-relief  in  bronze  ye  promised 

me, 
Those  Pans  and  Nymphs  ye  wot  of, 

and  perchance 
Some  tripod,  thyrsus,  with  a  vase  or 

so, 
The  Saviour  at  his  sermon   on    the 

mount, 
Saint  Praxed   in    a   glory,  and   one 

Pan 
Ready  to  twitch  the    Nymph's   last 

garment  off, 
And  Moses  with  the  tables  .  .  .  but  I 

know 
Ye  mark   me   not !     What  do  they 

whisper  thee, 
Child  of  my  bowels,  Anselm?    Ah, 

ye  hope 

To  revel  down  my  villas  while  I  gasp 
Bricked    o'er  with  beggar's  mouldy 

travertine 
Which  Gandolf   from    his   tomb-top 

chuckles  at ! 
Nay,  boys,  ye  love  me  —  all  of  jasper, 

then ! 
"Tis  jasper  ye  stand  pledged  to,  lest 

I  grieve 
My  bath  must  needs  be  left  behind 

alas ! 

One  block,  pure  green  as  a  pistachio- 
nut, 
There's  plenty  jasper  somewhere  in 

the  world  — 
And  have  I  not  Saint  Praxed's  ear  to 

pray 
Horses    for    ye,    and    brown    Greek 

manuscripts, 


82 


A   TOCCATA   OF   GALUPPTS. 


And  mistresses  with  great  smooth 
marbly  limbs  ? 

—  That's  if  ye  carve  my  epitaph  aright, 

Choice  Latin,  picked  phrase,  Tully's 
every  word, 

No  gaudy  ware  like  Gandolf's  second 
line  — 

Tully,  my  masters  ?  Ulpian  serves 
his  need ! 

And  then  how  I  shall  lie  through  cen- 
turies, 

And  hear  the  blessed  mutter  of  the 
mass, 

And  see  God  made  and  eaten  all  day 
long, 

And  feel  the  steady  candle-flame,  and 
taste 

Good  strong  thick  stupefying  incense- 
smoke  ! 

For  as  I  lie  here,  hours  of  the  dead 
night, 

Dying  in  state  and  by  such  slow  de- 
grees, 

I  fold  my  arms  as  if  they  clasped  a 
crook, 

And  stretch  my  feet  forth  straight  as 
store  can  point, 

And  let  the  bedclothes,  for  a  mort- 
cloth,  drop 

Into  great  laps  and  folds  of  sculptor's 
work: 

And  as  yon  tapers  dwindle,  and 
strange  thoughts 

Grow,  with  a  certain  humming  in  my 
ears, 

About  Ine  life  before  I  lived  this  life, 

And  this  life  too,  popes,  cardinals, 
and  priests, 

Saint  Praxed  at  his  sermon  on  the 
mount, 

Your  tall  pale  mother  with  her  talk- 
ing eyes, 

And  new-found  agate  urns  as  fresh 
as  day, 

And  marble's  language,  Latin  pure, 
discreet, 

-  Aha,  ELUCESCEBAT  quoth  our 
friend? 


No  Tully,  said  I,  Ulpian  at  the  best ! 

Evil  and  brief  hath  been  my  pilgrim- 
age. 

All  lapis,  all,  sons  !    Else  I  give  the 
Pope 

My   villas !    Will   ye    ever   eat   my 
heart  ? 

Ever  your  eyes  were   as  a  lizard's 
quick, 

They  glitter  like  your  mother's  for 
my  soul, 

Or  ye  would  heighten  n:y  impover- 
ished frieze, 

Piece  out  its  starved  design,  and  fill 
my  vase 

With  grapes,  and  add  a  visor  and  a 
Term, 

And  to  the  tripod  ye  would  tie  a  lynx 

That  in  his  struggle  throws  the  thyr- 
sus down, 

To  comfort  me  on  my  entablature 
I  Whereon  I  am  to  lie" till  I  must  ask 
I  "  Do  I  live  ?  am  I  dead  ?  "     There, 
leave  me,  there  ! 

For  ye  have  stabbed  me  with  ingrati- 
tude 

To  death  :  ye  wish  it  —  God,  ye  wish 
it !    Stone  — 

Gritstone,       a-crumble !         Clammy 
squares  which  sweat 

As  if  the  corpse  they  keep  were  ooz- 
ing through — 

And   no   more   lapis  to  delight  the 
world  ! 

Well  go  !    I  bless  ye.    Fewer  tapers 
there, 

But  in  a  row:  and,  going,  turn  your 
backs 

—  Ay,    like     departing    altar-minis- 
trants, 

And   leave   me   in   my  church,  the 
church  for  peace, 

That  I  may  watch  at  leisure  if  he 
leers  — 

Old  Gandclf  at  me,  from  his  onion- 
stone, 

As  still  he  envied  me,  so  fair    she 
was  ! 


A  TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPI'S. 

i. 

0  GALITPPI,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find  ! 

1  can  hardly  misconceive  you  ;  it  would  prove  me  deaf  and  blind: 
But,  although  I  take  your  meaning,  'tis  with  such  a  heavy  mind  1 


A   TOCCATA   OF   GALUPPrS. 


Here  you  coine  with  your  old  music,  and  here's  all  tbe  good  it  brings. 
What,  they  lived  once  thus  at  Venice  where  the  merchants  were  the  kings, 
Where  Saint  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed  the  sea  with  rings  ? 

in. 

Ay,  because  the  sea's  the  street  there;  and  'tis  arched  by  ...  what  you  call 
.  .  .  Shy  lock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where  they  kept  the  carnival: 
I  was  never  out  of  England  —  it's  as  if  I  saw  it  all. 

IV. 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea  was  warm  in  May  ? 
Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to  mid-dajr, 
When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  morrow,  do  you  say  ? 

v. 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips  so  red,  — 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower  on  its  bed, 
O'er  the  breast's  superb  abundance  where  a  man  might  base  his  head  ? 

VI. 

Well,  and  it  was  graceful  of  them :  they'd  break  talk  off  and  afford 

—  She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet,  he,  to  finger  on  his  sword, 
While  you  sat  and  played  Toccatas,  stately  at  the  clavichord  ? 

VII. 

What  ?    Those  lesser  thirds  so  plaintive,  sixths  diminished,  sigh  on  sigh, 
Told    them    something?    Those  suspensions,  those  solutions  —  "Must  we 

die  ?  " 
Those  commiserating  sevenths  —  "  Life  might  last !  we  can  but  try  !  " 

vin . 

"Were  you  happv?"  —  "Yes."  —  "And  are  you  still  as  happy?"  —  "Yes. 
Andyou?"' 

—  "Then,  more  kisses  !"  —  "Did  /  stop  them,  when  a  million  seemed  so 

few  ?  " 
Hark,  the  dominant's  persistence  till  it  must  be  answered  to  ! 


So,  an  octave  struck  the  answer.    Oh,  they  praised  you,  I  dare  say  ! 
"  Brave  Galuppi !  that  was  music  !  good  alike  at  grave  and  gay  ! 
I  can  always  leave  off  talking  when  I  hear  a  master  play  !  " 

x. 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure  :  till  in  due  time,  one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds  as  well  undone, 
Death  stepped  tacitly,  and  took  them  where  they  never  see  the  sun. 


But  when  T  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my  stand  nor  swerve, 
While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's  close  reserve, 
In  you  come  with  your  cold  music  till  I  creep  through  every  nerve. 

XII. 

Yes,  you,  like  a  ghostly  cricket,  creaking  where  a  house  was  burned: 
"  Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice  spent  what  Venice  earned. 
The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal  —  where  a  soul  can  be  discerned. 


84 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A   CONTEMPORARY. 


"  Yours  for  instance:  you  know  physics,  something  of  geology, 
Mathematics  are  your  pastime ;  souls  shall  rise  in  their  degree ; 
Butterflies  may  dread  extinction,  —  you'll  not  die,  it  cannot  be  ! 


"  As  for  Venice  and  her  people,  merely  born  to  bloom  and  drop, 
Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and  folly  were  the  crop; 
What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing  had  to  stop  ? 


"  Dust  and  ashes  !  "    So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want  the  heart  to  scold. 
Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too  —  what's  become  of  all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms  ?    I  feel  chilly  and  grown  old. 


HOW    IT    STRIKES    A    CON- 
TEMPORARY. 

I  ONLY  knew  one  poet  in  nay  life  : 
And  this,  or  something  like  it,  was 
his  way. 

You  saw  go  up  and  down  Vallado- 

lid, 
A.  man  of  mark,  to  know  next  time 

you  saw. 

His  very  serviceable  suit  of  black 
Was  courtly  once  and  conscientious 

still, 
And  many  might  have  worn  it,  though 

none  did  : 
The  cloak,  that  somewhat  shone  and 

showed  the  threads, 
Had  purpose,  and   the  ruff,  signifi- 
cance. 
He  walked,  and  tapped  the  pavement 

with  his  cane, 
Scenting  the  world,  looking  it  full  in 

face  : 
An  old  dog,  bald  and  blindish,  at  his 

heels. 
They  turned  up,  now,  the  alley  by 

the  church, 
That   leads   no  whither ;   now,  they 

breathed  themselves 
On  the  main  promenade  just  at  the 

wrong  time. 

You'd  come  upon  his  scrutinizing  hat, 
Making  a  peaked  shade  blacker  than 

itself 
Against   the   single   window  spared 

some  house 

Intact  yet  with  its  mouldered  Moor- 
ish work,  — 


Or  else  surprise  the  ferrel  of  his  stick 
Trying  the  mortar's  temper  'tween 

the  chinks 
Of  some  new  shop  a-building,  French 

and  fine. 
He  stood  and  watched  the  cobbler  at 

his  trade, 

The  man  who  slices  lemons  into  drink. 
The  coffee-roaster's  brazier,  and  the 

boys 
That  volunteer  to  help  him  turn  its 

winch. 
He  glanced  o'er  books  on  stalls  with 

half  an  eye, 
And  fly-leaf  ballads  on  the  vendor's 

string, 
And  broad-edge  bold-print  posters  by 

the  wall. 
He  took  such  cognizance  of  men  and 

things, 

If  any  beat  a  horse,  you  felt  he  saw; 
If  any  cursed  a  woman,  he  took  note; 
Yet  stared  at  nobody,  —  you  stared  at 

him, 
And  found,  less  to  your  pleasure  than 

surprise, 
He  seemed  to  know  you  and  expect 

as  much. 
So,    next    time    that    a    neighbor's 

tongue  was  loosed, 
It  marked  the  shameful  and  notorious- 

fact 
We  had  among  us,  not  so  much  a 

spy. 

As  a  recording  chief-inquisitor, 

The  town's  true  master  if  the  town 

but  knew ! 

We  merely  kept  a  governor  for  form, 
While  this  man   walked  about  and 

took  account 


How  it  strikes  a  Contemporary.  —  Page  84. 


HOW  IT  STRIKES  A   CONTEMPORARY. 


85 


Of  all  thought,  said  and  acted,  then 

went  home, 
And  wrote  it  fully  to  our  Lord  the 

King 
Who  has  an  itch  to  know  things,  he 

knows  why, 
And  reads  them  in  his  bedroom  of  a 

night. 
Oh,  you  might  smile  !  there  wanted 

not  a  touch, 
A  tang  of  .  .  .  well,  it  was  not  wholly 

ease. 
As  back  into  your  mind  the  man's 

look  came. 

Stricken  in  years  a  little,  such  a  brow 
His  eyes  had  to  live  under!  —  clear 

as  flint 

On  either  side  o'  the  formidable  nose 
Curved,  cut  and  colored  like  an  eagle's 

claw. 
Had  he  to  do  with  A.'s  surprising 

fate? 

When  altogether  old  B.  disappeared, 
And  young  C.  got  his  mistress,  —  was't 

our  friend, 
His  letter  to  the  King,  that  did  it 

all? 
What  paid  the  bloodless  man  for  so 

much  pains? 

Our  Lord  the  King  has  favorites  mani- 
fold, 
And  shifts  his  ministry  some  once  a 

month  : 
Our    city    gets    new    governors    at 

whiles,  — 
But  never  word  or  sign,  that  I  could 

hear, 

Notified,  to  this  man  about  the  streets, 
The  King's  approval  of  those  letters 

conned 
The  last  thing  duly  at  the  dead  of 

night. 
Did  the  man  love  his  office  ?  Frowned 

our  Lord, 

Exhorting  when  none  heard  —  "Be- 
seech me  not ! 
Too  far  above  my  people,  — beneath 

me ! 
I   set   the  watch,  —  how  should  the 

people  know  ? 
Forget  them,  keep  me  all  the  more  in 

mind  ! " 
Was  some  such  understanding  'twixt 

the  two  ? 

I  found  no  truth  in  one  report  at 

least  — 

That  if  you  tracked  him  to  his  home, 
down  lanes 


Beyond  the  Jewry,  and  as  clean  to 

pace, 
You  found  he  ate  his    supper  in   a 

room 
Blazing  with  lights,  four  Titians  on 

the  wall, 
And  twenty  naked  girls  to  change  his 

plate  ! 
Poor  man,  he  lived  another  kind  of 

life 
In  that  new  stuccoed  third  house  by 

the  bridge, 
Fresh-painted,    rather    smart    than 

otherwise  ! 
The  whole  street  might  o'erlook  him 

as  he  sat, 
Leg  crossing  leg,  one  foot  on  the  dog's 

back, 
Playing  a  decent  cribbage  with  his 

maid 
(Jacynth,  you're  sure  her  name  was) 

o'er  the  cheese 
And  fruit,  three  red  halves  of  starved 

winter-pears, 

Or  treat  of  radishes  in  April.    Nine, 
Ten,  struck  the  church  clock,  straight 

to  bed  went  he. 

My  father  like  the  man  of  sense  he 

was. 
Would  poin    him  out  to  me  a  dozen 

times 
"  St  —  St."  h  3'd  whisper,  "  the  Corre- 

2idor     '  , 

I  had  been  used  to  think  that  person- 
age 
Was   one  with    lacquered   breeches, 

lustrous  belt, 

And  feathers  like  a  forest  in  his  hat, 
Who  blew  a  trumpet  and  proclaimed 

the  news, 
Announced  the  bull-fights,  gave  each 

church  its  turn, 

And  memorized  the  miracle  in  vogue! 
He  had  a  great  observance  from  us 

boys  ; 
We  were  in  error ;  that  was  not  the 

man. 

I'd  like  now,  yet  had  haply  been 
afraid, 

To  have  just  looked,  when  this  man 
came  to  die, 

And  seen  who  lined  the  clean  gay 
garret  sides, 

And  stood  about  the  neat  low  truckle- 
bed, 

With  the  heavenly  manner  of  reliev- 
ing guard 


86 


PROTUS. 


Here  had  been,  mark,  the  general-in- 

chief, 
Through   a  whole  campaign   of  the 

world's  life  and  death, 
Doing  the  King's  work  all  the  dim 

day  long, 
In  his  old  coat  and  up  to  knees  in 

mud, 
Smoked  like  a  herring,  dining  on  a 

crust,  — 
And,  now  the  day  was  won,  relieved 

at  once  ! 
No  further  show  or  need  of  that  old 

coat, 
You  are  sure,  for  one  thing!    Bless 

us,  all  the  while 
How  sprucely  we  are  dressed   out, 

you  and  I ! 

A  second,  and  the  angels  alter  that. 
Well,  I  could  never  write  a  verse,  — 

could  you  ? 
Let's  to  the  Prado  and  make  the  most 

of  time. 


PROTUS. 

AMONG  these  latter  busts  we  count 
by  scores, 

Half-emperors  and  quarter-emperors, 

Each  with  his  bay-leaf  fillet,  loose- 
thonged  vest, 

Loric  and  low-browed  Gorgon  on  the 
breast,  — 

One  loves  a  baby  face,  with  violets 
there, 

Violets  instead  of  laurel  in  the  hair, 

As  those  were  all  the  little  locks  could 
bear. 

Now  read  here.  "  Protus  ends  a  pe- 
riod 

Of  empery  beginning  with  a  god  ; 
Born   in    the    porphyry    chamber   at 

Byzant, 
Queens  by  his  cradle,  proud  and  min- 

istrant : 
And  if  he  quickened   breath  there, 

t' would  like  fi re 
Pantingly  through  the  dim  vast  realm 

transpire. 
A  fame  that  he  was  missing,  spread 

afar  : 
The  world,  from  its  four  corners,  rose 

in  war, 


Till  he  was  borne  out  on  a  balcony 

To  pacify  the  world  when  it  should 
see. 

The  captains  ranged  before  him,  one, 
his  hand 

Made  baby  points  at,  gained  the  chief 
command. 

And  day  by  day  more  beautiful  he 
grew 

In  shape,  all  said,  in  feature  and  in  hue, 

While  young  Greek  sculptors  gaz- 
ing on  the  child 

Became,  with  old  Greek  sculpture, 
reconciled. 

Already  sages  labored  to  condense 

In  easy  tomes  a  life's  experience  : 

And  artists  took  grave  counsel  to 
impart 

In  one  breath  and  one  hand-sweep, 
all  their  art, 

And  make  his  graces  prompt  as  blos- 
soming 

Of  plentifully  watered  palms  in  spring: 

Since  well  beseems  it,  whoso  mounts 
the  throne, 

For  beauty,  knowledge,  strength, 
should  stand  alone, 

And  mortals  love  the  letters  of  his 


—  Stop  !    Have  you  turned  two  pages  ? 

Still  the  same. 
New  reign,  same  date.    The   scribe 

goes  on  to  say 
How  that  same  year,  on  such  a  month 

and  day, 
"  John   the    Pannonian,    groundedly 

believed 
A  blacksmith's  bastard,  whose  hard 

hand  reprieved 
The  Empire  from  its  fate   the  year 

before,  — 
Came,  had  a  mind  to  take  the  crown, 

and  wore 
The  same  for  six  years  (during  which 

the  Huns 
Kept  off  their  fingers  from  us),  til! 

his  sons 
Put  something  in  his  liquor  "  —  and 

so  forth. 
Then  a  new  reign.    Stay  —  "Take  at 

its  just  worth  " 

(Subjoins  an  annotator)  "What  I  give 
As   hearsay.    Some  think,   John  let 

Protus  live 
And  slip  away.    'Tis  said,  he  reached 

man's  age 
At  some  blind  northern  court  ;  made 

first  a  page, 


MASTER  HUGUES   OF  SAXE-GOTHA. 


87 


Then  tutor  to  the  children  ;  last,  of 
use 

About  the  hunting  stables.    I  deduce 

He  wrote  the  little  tract  '  On  worm- 
ing dogs,' 

Whereof  the  name  in  sundry  cata- 
logues 

Is  extant  yet.    A  Protus  of  the  race 

Is  rumored  to  have  died  a  monk  in 
Thrace,  — 

And,  if  the  same,  he  reached  senili- 
ty." 

Here's  John  the  smith's  rough-ham- 
mered head.  Great  eye, 

Gross  jaw  and  griped  lips  do  what 
granite  can 

To  give  you  the  crown-grasper. 
"What  a  man  ! 


MASTER  HUGUES  OF  SAXE- 
GOTHA. 


HIST,  but  a  word,  fair  and  soft ! 
Forth    and     be     judged,     Master 

Hugues ! 
Answer  the  question  I've  put  you  so 

oft : 

What  do  you  mean  by  your  moun- 
tainous fugues  ? 
See,  we're  alone  in  the  loft,  — 


I,  the  poor  organist  here, 

Hugues,  the  composer  of  note, 
Dead  though,  and   done    with,   this 

many  a  year : 
Let's  have  a  colloquy,  something  to 

quote, 
Make  the  world  prick  up  its  ear  ! 


See,  the  church  empties  apace  : 

Fast  they  extinguish  the  lights. 
Hallo   thero,    sacristan !    Five    min- 
utes' grace ! 

Here's   a  crank    pedal  wants   set- 
ting to  rights, 
Balks  one  of  holding  the  base. 


See,  our  huge  house  of  the  sounds, 

Hushing  its  hundreds  at  once, 
Bids    the    last    loiterer   back   to   his 

bounds ! 
—  Oh,   you   may  challenge   them ! 

not  a  response 
Get  the  church-saints  on  their  rounds! 


(Saints  go  their  rounds,  who  shall 

doubt  ? 

—  March,  with  the  moon  to  admire, 
Up  nave,  down  chancel,  turn  tran- 
sept about, 
Supervise  all  betwixt  pavement  and 

spire, 
Put  rats  and  mice  to  the  rout  — 


Aloys  and  Jurien  and  Just  — 

Order  things  back  to  their  place, 
Have  a  sharp  eye  lest  the  candlesticks 

rust, 

Rub  the  church-plate,  darn  the  sac- 
rament-lace, 
Clear  the  desk-velvet  of  dust.) 


Here's    your    book,    younger    folks 

shelve ! 
Played    I    not   off-hand   and    run- 

ningly, 
Just   now,    your   masterpiece,    hard 

number  twelve  ? 
Here's  what  should  strike,  could 

one  handle  it  cunningly  : 
Help  the  axe,  give  it  a  helve  ! 

VIII. 

Page  after  page  as  I  played, 

Every  bar's  rest,  where  one  wipes 
Sweat  from  one's  brow,  I  looked  up 

and  surveyed, 
O'er  my  three  claviers,  yon  forest 

of  pipes 
Whence  you  still  peeped  in  the  shade. 


Sure  you  were  wishful  to  speak, 

You,  with  brow  ruled  like  a  score, 
Yes,  and  eyes  buried  in  pits  on  each 

cheek, 
Like    two   great    breves,    as   they 

wrote  them  of  yore, 
Each  side  that  bar,  your  straight  beak! 


"  r>         88                           MASTER  HUGHES   OF  SAKE-GOT  HA.                                      ^£ 

X. 

XVI. 

Sure   you    said  —  "Good,    the   mere 

One  is  incisive,  corrosive  ; 

notes  ! 

Two   retorts,   nettled,   curt,   crepi- 

Still,  could'st  thou  take  my  intent, 

tant  : 

»         Know  what  procured  me  our  Com- 

Three   makes   rejoinder,    expansive, 

pany's  votes  — 

«         explosive  ; 

A  master  were  lauded  and  sciolists 

Four  overbears  them  all,  strident 

shent, 

and  strepitant  : 

Parted  the  sheep  from  the  goats  !  " 

Five  .  .  .  O  Danaides,  O  Sieve  ! 

XI. 

XVII. 

"Well  then,  speak  up,  never  flinch  ! 
Quick,  ere  my  candle's  a  snuff 
—  Burnt,  do  you  see?  to  its  uttermost 

Now,  they  ply  axes  and  crowbars  ; 
Now,  they  prick  pins  at  a  tissue 
Fine  as  a  skein  of  the  casuist  Escobar's 

inch  — 

"Worked  on  the  bone  of  a  lie.    To 

I   believe   in  you,   but  that's  not 

what  issue  ? 

enough  : 
Give  my  conviction  a  clinch  ! 

Where  is  our  gain  at  the  Two-bars  ? 

XVIII. 

XII. 

First  you  deliver  your  phrase 
—  Nothing  propound,  that  I  see, 

Est  fur/a,  volritur  rota. 
On  we  drift  :  where  looms  the  dim 
port  ? 

Fit  in  itself  for  much  blame  or  much 

One,  Two,  Three,  Four,  Five,  contrib 

praise  — 
Answered  no  less,  where  no  answer 
needs  be  : 
Off  start  the  Two  on  their  ways. 

ute  their  quota  ; 
Something  is  gained,  if  cne  caught 
but  the  import  : 
Show  it  us,  Hugues  of  Saxe-Gotha  ! 

XIII. 

XIX. 

Straight  must  a  Third  interpose, 
"Volunteer  needlessly  help  ; 
In  strikes  a  Fourth,  a  Fifth  thrusts  in 

What  with  affirming,  denying, 
Holding,  risposting,  subjoining, 
All's  like  .  .  .  it's  like  .  .  .  for  an  in« 

his  nose, 
So   the   cry's   open,    the    kennel's 

stance  I'm  trying  .  .  . 
There  !  See  our  roof,  its  gilt  mould. 

a-yelp, 
Argument's  hot  to  the  close. 

ing  and  groining 
Under  those  spider-webs  lying  ! 

XIV. 

One  dissertates,  he  is  candid  ; 
Two    must    discept,  —  has    distin- 
guished ; 

XX. 

So  your  fugue  broadens  and  thickens, 
Greatens  and  deepens  and  length- 

Three helps  the  couple,  if  ever  yet 
man  did  ' 

ens, 
Till     we     exclaim  —  "  But    where's 

Four  protests  ;  Five  makes  a  dart  at 
the  thing  wished  : 
Back  to  One,  goes  the  case  bandied. 

music,  the  dickens  ? 
Blot  ye  the  gold,  while  your  spider- 
web  strengthens 
—  Blacked  to  the  stoutest  of  tickens  ?  " 

XV. 

One  says  his  say  with  a  difference  ; 
More  of  expounding,  explaining  ! 
All  now  is  wrangle,  abuse,  and  vocif- 

XXI. 

I  for  man's  effort  am  zealous  : 
Prove  me  such  censure  unfounded  !           t 

1  f»                  erance  ; 

Seems   it   surprising   a   lover  grows        1  I 

Now  there's  a  truce,  all's  subdued, 

jealous  — 

self-restraining  : 

Hopes  'twas  for  something,  his  or- 

Five,  though,  stands  out  all  the  stiff  er 

gan-pipes  sounded. 

hence. 

Tiring  three  boys  at  the  bellows  ? 

V     (>                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     *J 

^~j      1  t  —  1  —           —  s                                                                                             <•                   ~*    a  1  ^ 

ABT    VOGLER. 


89 


Is  it  your  moral  of  Life  ? 

Such  a  web,  simple  and  subtle, 
Weave  we  on  earth  here  in  impotent 

strife, 

Backward  and  forward  each  throw- 
ing his  shuttle, 
Death  ending  all  with  a  knife  ? 

XXIII. 

Over  our  heads  truth  and  nature  — 
Still  our  life's  zigzags  and  dodges, 
Ins  and  outs,  weaving  a  new  legisla- 
ture— 
God's   gold    just   shining   its   last 

where  that  lodges, 
Palled  beneath  man's  usurpature. 


So  we  o'ershroud  stars  and  roses, 

Cherub  and  trophy  and  garland  ; 
Nothings     grow     something     which 

quietly  closes 
Heaven's  earnest  eye  :  not  a  glimpse 

of  the  far  land 

Gets    through     our    comments     and 
glozes. 

XXV. 

Ah,  but  traditions,  inventions 

(Say  we  and  make  up  a  visage), 
So  many  men  with  such  various  in- 
tentions, 
Down  the   past    ages,  must  know 

more  than  this  age  ! 
Leave  we  the  web  its  dimensions  ! 

XXVI. 

"Who    thinks   Hugues  wrote  for  the 

deaf, 
Proved  a  mere  mountain  in  labor  ? 


Better  submit  ;  try  again  ;  what's  the 

clef? 
'Faith,  'tis  no  trifle  for  pipe  and  for 

tabor  — 
Four  flats,  the  minor  in  F. 

XXVII. 

Friend,  your  fugue  taxes  the  finger  : 
Learning  it  once,  who  would  lose 

it? 
Yet  all  the  while  a  misgiving    will 

linger, 
Truth's  golden  o'er  us  although  we 

refuse  it  — 

Nature,  through  cobwebs  we  string 
her. 


XXVIII. 

Hugues  !     I  advise  med  pcend 

(Counterpoint  glares  like  a  Gorgon) 
Bid    One,   Two,  Three,  Four,   Five, 

clear  the  arena ! 
Say  the  word,  straight  I  unstop  the 

full-organ, 
Blare  out  the  mode  Palestrina. 

XXIX. 

While  in  the  roof,  if  I'm  right  there, 

.  .  .  Lo  you,  the  wick  in  the  socket ! 

Hallo,  you  sacristan,  show  us  a  light 

there  ! 

Down  it  dips,  gone  like  a  rocket. 
What,  you  want,  do  you,  to  come  una- 
wares, 
Sweeping   the    church    up    for   first 

morning-prayers , 
And  find  a  poor  devil  has  ended  his 

cares 

At  the  foot  of  your  rotten-runged  rat- 
riddled  stairs  ? 
Do  I  carry  the  moon  in  my  pocket  ? 


ABT   VOGLER. 


(AFTER  HE  HAS    BEEN   EXTEMPORIZING    UPON   THE  MUSICAL    INSTRU- 
MENT OF  HIS  INVENTION.) 


WOULD  that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold  music  I  build, 
Bidding  ir.y  organ  obey,  c'alling  its  keys  to  their  work, 

Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as  when  Solomon  willed 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons  that  lurk, 


90  ABT    VOGLER. 


Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly,  —  alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 
Adverse,  each  from  the  other  lieaven-high,  hell-deep  removed, — 

Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the  ineffable  Name, 
And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure  the  princess  he  loved  ! 


Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  building  of  mine, 

This  which  my  keys  in  a  crowd  pressed  and  importuned  to  raise  ! 
Ah,  one  and  all,  how  they  helped,  would  dispart  now  and  now  combine, 

Zealous  to  hasten  the  work,  heighten  their  master  his  praise  ! 
And  one  would  bury  his  brow  with  a  blind  plunge  down  to  hell, 

Burrow  a  while  and  build,  broad  on  the  roots  of  things 
Then  up  again  swim  into  sight,  having  based  me  my  palace  well, 

Founded  it,  fearless  of  flame,  flat  on  the  nether  springs. 


A.nd  another  would  mount  and  march,  like  the  excellent  minion  he  was, 

Ay,  another  and  yet  another,  one  crowd  but  with  many  a  crest, 
Raising  my  rampired  walls  of  gold  as  transparent  as  glass, 

Eager  to  do  and  die,  yield  each  his  place  to  the  rest  ; 
For  higher  still  and  higher  (as  a  runner  tips  with  fire, 

When  a  great  illumination  surprises  a  festal  night  — 
Outlining  round  and  round  Rome's  dome  from  space  to  spire) 

Up,  the  pinnacled  glory  reached,  and  the  pride  of  my  soul  was  in  sight. 


In  sight  ?    Not  half  !  for  it  seemed,  it  was  certain,  to  match  man's  birth, 

Nature  in  turn  conceived,  obeying  an  impulse  as  I ; 
And  the  emulous  heaven  yearned  down,  made  effort  to  reach  the  earth, 

As  the  earth  had  done  her  best,  in  my  passion,  to  scale  the  sky  : 
Novel  splendors  burst  forth,  grew  familiar  and  dwelt  with  mine, 

Not  a  point  nor  peak  but  found,  but  fixed  its  wandering  star  ; 
Meteor-moons,  balls  of  blaze  :  and  they  did  not  pale  nor  pine, 

For  earth  had  attained  to  heaven,  there  was  no  more  near  nor  far. 

v. 

Nay  more  ;  for  there  wanted  not  who  walked  in  the  glare  and  glow, 

Presences  plain  in  the  place  ;  or,  fresh  from  the  Protoplast, 
Furnished  for  ages  to  come,  when  a  kindlier  wind  should  blow, 

Lured  now  to  begin  and  live,  in  a  house  to  their  liking  at  last ; 
Or  else  the  wonderful  Dead  who  have  passed  through  the  body  and  gone, 

But  were  back  once  more  to  breathe  in  an  old  world  worth  their  new  : 
What  never  had  been,  was  now  ;  what  was,  as  it  shall  be  anon  ; 

And  what  is,  —  shall  I  say,  matched  both  ?  for  I  was  made  perfect  too. 


All  through  my  keys  that  gave  their  sounds  to  a  wish  of  my  soul, 

All  through  my  soul  that  praised  as  its  wish  lie  wed  visibly  forth, 
All  through  music  and  me  !     For  think,  had  I  painted  the  whole, 

Why,  there  it  had  stood,  to  see,  nor  the  process  so  wonder-worth. 
Had  I  written  the  same,  made  verse  —  still,  effect  proceeds  from  cause, 

Ye  know  why  the  forms  are  fair,  ye  hear  how  the  tale  is  told  ; 
It  is  all  triumphant  art,  but  art  in  obedience  to  laws, 

Painter  and  poet  are  proud,  in  the  artist-list  enrolled  :  — 


ABT    VOGLER.  91 


But  here  is  the  linger  of  God,  a  flash  of  the  will  that  can, 

Existent  behind  all  laws  :  that  made  them,  and,  lo,  they  are  ! 
And  I  know  not  if,  save  in  this,  such  gift  be  allowed  to  man, 

That  out  of  three  sounds  he  frame,  not  a  fourth  sound,  but  a  star. 
Consider  it  well :  each  tone  of  our  scale  in  itself  is  naught ; 

It  is  everywhere  in  the  world  —  loud,  soft,  and  all  is  said  : 
Give  it  to  me  to  use  !    I  mix  it  with  two  in  my  thought, 

And,  there  !    Ye  have  heard  and  seen  :  consider  and  bow  the  head  I 

vm. 

Well,  it  is  gone  at  last,  the  palace  of  music  I  reared  : 

Gone  !  and  the  good  tears  start,  the  praises  that  come  too  slow  ; 
For  one  is  assured  at  first,  one  scarce  can  say  that  he  feared, 

That  he  even  gave  it  a  thought,  the  gone  thing  was  to  go. 
Never  to  be  again  !     But  many  more  of  the  kind 

As  good,  nay,  better  perchance  :  is  this  your  comfort  to  me  ? 
To  me,  who  must  be  saved  because  I  cling  with  my  mind 

To  the  same,  same  self,  same  love,  same  God  :  ay,  what  was,  shall  be. 

IX. 

Therefore  to  whom  turn  I  but  to  thee,  the  ineffable  Name  ? 

Builder  and  maker,  thou,  of  houses  not  made  with  hands  ! 
What,  have  fear  of  change  from  thee  who  art  ever  the  same  ? 

Doubt  that  thy  power  can  fill  the  heart  that  thy  power  expands  ? 
There  shall  never  be  one  lost  good  !    What  was,  shall  live  as  before  ; 

The  evil  is  null,  is  naught,  is  silence  implying  sound  ; 
What  was  good,  shall  be  good,  with,  for  evil,  so  much  good  more  ; 

On  the  earth  the  broken  arcs  ;  in  the  heaven,  a  perfect  round. 

x. 

All  we  have  willed  or  hoped  or  dreamed  of  good,  shall  exist ; 

Not  its  semblance,  but  itself  ;  no  beauty,  nor  good,  nor  power 
Whose  voice  has  gone  forth,  but  each  survives  for  the  melodist, 

When  eternity  affirms  the  conception  of  an  hour. 
The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic  for  earth  too  hard, 

The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky, 
Are  music  sent  up  to  God  by  the  lover  and  the  bard  ; 

Enough  th^t  he  heard  it  once  :  we  shall  hear  it  by  and  by- 

XI. 

And  what  is  our  failure  here  but  a  triumph's  evidence 

For  the  fulness  cf  the  days  ?    Have  we  withered  or  agonized  ? 
Why  else  was  t.he  pause  prolonged  but  that  singing  might  issue  thence  { 

Why  rushed  the  discords  in,  but  that  harmony  should  be  pri?^  ? 
Sorrow  is  hard  to  bear,  and  doubt  is  slow  to  clear, 

Each  sufferer  says  his  say,  his  scheme  of  the  weal  and  woe  • 
But  God  has  a  few  of  us  whom  he  whispers  in  the  ear  : 

The  rest  may  reason  and  welcome  ;  'tis  we  musicians  know. 

XII. 

Well,  it  is  earth  with  me  ;  silence  resumes  her  reign  : 

I  will  be  patient  and  proud,  and  soberly  acquiesce. 
Give  me  the  keys_.    I  feel  for  the  common  chord  again, 

Sliding  by  semitones,  till  I  sink  to  the  minor,  —  yes, 
And  I  blunt  it  into  a  ninth,  and  I  stand  on  alien  ground, 

Surveying  a  while  the  heights  I  rolled  from  into  the  deep  ; 
.  Which,  hark,  I  have  dared  and  done,  for  my  resting-place  is  found, 

The  C  Major  of  this  life  :  so,  now  I  will  try  to  sleep. 


TWO   IN   THE   CAMPAGNA. 


TWO  IN   THE   CAMPAGNA. 


I  WONDER  do  you  feel  to-day 
As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Borne  and  May  ? 


For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 

Has  tantalized  rne  many  times 
(Like   turns   of    thread   the   spiders 

throw 
Mocking     across     our    path),    for 

rhymes 
To  catch  at  and  let  go. 


Help  me  to  hold  it !    First  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,    branching    from    the    brick- 
work's cleft, 
Some  o!d  tomb's  ruin:  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft, 


Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 
Five  beetles,  —  blind  and  green  they 
grope 

Among  the  honey-meal :  and  last, 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope, 

I  traced  it.    Hold  it  fast ! 


The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere  ! 

Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air  — 

Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 


Such  life  here,  through  such  lengths 
of  hours, 

Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 
Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 

Such  letting  nature  have  her  way 
While  heaven  looks  from  its  towers  ! 


How  say  you  ?  Let  us,  O  my  dove, 
Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 

As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above  ! 
How  is  it  under  our  control 

To  love  or  not  to  love  ? 


I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 
Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor 

free  ! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie?    What 

the  core 
O'  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be  ? 


I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 
See  with  your  eyes,  and   set   m$ 

heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 
At  your  soul's  springs,  —  your  part, 

my  part 
In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 


No.     I   yearn    upward,    touch    you 

close, 
Then   stand   away.      I   kiss   your 

cheek, 
Catch  your  soul's  warmth,  —  I  pluck 

the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can 

speak  — 
Then  the  good  minute  goes. 


Already  how  am  I  so  far 
Out  of  that  minute  ?    Must  I  go 

Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 
Onwaid,     whenever     light    winds 
blow, 

Fixed  by  no  friendly  star  ? 


Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn  \ 
Where   is   the   thread    now  ?    Off 
again ! 

The  old  trick  !    Only  I  discern  — 
Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 

Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn. 


DE   GUSTIBUS  — ' 


YOUR  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of 

trees 

(If  our  loves  remain), 
In  an  English  lane, 
By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  pop- 
pies. 


THE    GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 


93 


Hark,   those    two  in  the  hazel  cop- 
pice — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates 

please, 

Making  love,  say, — 
The  happier  they ! 
Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of 

flic  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too 

soon, 

With  the  beanflower's  boon, 
And  the  blackbird's  tune, 
And  May,  and  June  ! 


ii. 

What  I  love  best  in  all  the  world 
Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurled, 
In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apen- 

nine. 

Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine 
(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 
O'  the  grave,   and   loose  my  spirit's 

bands, 

And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands), 
In  a  seaside  house  to  the  farther 

South, 
Where    the    baked    cicala    dies    of 

drouth, 
And  one  sharp  tree  —  'tis  a  cypress  — 

stands, 

By   the    many   hundred   years    red- 
rusted, 
Rough,    iron-spiked,    ripe    fruit-o'er- 

crusted, 

My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 
To  the  water's  edge.    For,  what  ex- 
pands 
Before    the    house,    but    the    great 

opaque 

Blue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break  ? 
While,  in  the  house,  forever  crumbles 
Some  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 
From  blisters  where  a  scorpion 

sprawls. 

A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 
Down  on  the  pavement,  green-flesh 

melons, 
And  says  there's  news  to-day,  —  the 

king 

Was  shot  at,  touched  in  the   liver- 
wing, 

Goes  with  his  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling: 
—  She  hopes  they  have  not  caught  the 

felons. 

Italy,  my  Italy  ! 

Queen  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me  — 
(When  fortune's  malice 
Lost  her,  Calais) 


Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 
Graved  inside  of  it.  "  Italy." 
Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she  : 
So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be  ! 


THE   GUARDIAN-ANGEL. 

A  PICTURE  AT  FANO. 

I. 
DEAR  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou 

only  leave 
That  child,  when  thou  hast  done 

with  him,  for  me ! 
Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when 

eve 
Shall   find   performed   thy  special 

ministry, 
And  time  come  for  departure,  thou, 

suspending 
Thy  flight,  may'st  see  another  child 

for  tending, 
Another  still  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

ii. 
Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step, 

no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to 

where  I  gaze. 
—  And  suddenly  my  head  is  covered 

o'er 
With  those  wings,  white  above  the 

child  who  prays 
Now  on  that  tomb  —  and  I  shall  feel 

thee  guarding 

Me,  out  of  all  the  world;  for  me,  dis- 
carding 

Yon  heaven  thy  home,  that  waits 
and  opes  its  door. 


I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy 

head 
Because   the  door  opes,  like  that 

child,  I  know, 
For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face 

instead, 
Thou  bird  of  God  !    And  wilt  thou 

bend  me  low 
Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands 

together, 
And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently 

tether 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy 
garment's  spread  ? 


EVELYN  HOPE. 


If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would 

rest 
My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy 

healing  hands 
Close-covered   both  my  eyes  beside 

thy  breast, 
Pressing  the  brain  which  too  much 

thought  expands, 
Back  to  its   proper  size  again,  and 

smoothing 
Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had 

soothing, 

And  all  lay  quiet,  happy,  and  sup- 
pressed. 


How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would 

be  repaired ! 
I    think    how   I    should   view   the 

earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow 

was  bared 

Alter  thy  healing,  with  such  differ- 
ent eyes. 
O  world,  as  God  has  made  it !    All  is 

beauty : 
And  knowing  this  is  love,  and  love  is 

duty. 

What,  further  may  be  sought  for  or 
declared  ? 


Guerciuo    drew   this    angel    I    saw 

teach 
(Alfred,  dear  friend  !)  — that  little 

child  to  pray, 
Holding  the  little  hands  up,  each  to 

each 
Pressed    gently,  —  with    his    own 

head  turned  away 

Over  the  earth  where  so  much  lay  be- 
fore him 
Of  work  to  do,  though  heaven  was 

opening  o'er  him, 

And  he  was  left  at  Fano  by  the 
beach. 

VII. 

We  were  at  Fano,  and  three  times  we 

went 
To  sit  and  see  him  in  his  chapel 

there, 
And  drink  his  beauty  to  our  soul's 

content 

—  My  angel  with  me  too  :  and  since 
I  care 


For  dear  Guercino's  fame  (to  which  in 

power 
And  glory  comes  this  picture  for  a 

dower, 

Fraught  with  a  pathos  so  magnifi- 
cent) 

vni. 

And  since  he  did  not  work  thus  ear- 
nestly 
At  all  times,  and  has  else  endured 

some  wrong  — 
I  took  one  thought  his  picture  struck 

from  me, 
And  spread  it  out,  translating  it  to 

song. 
My  love  is  here.    Where  are  you,  dear 

old  friend  ? 
How  rolls  the  Wairoa  at  your  world's 

far  end  ? 
This  is  Ancona,  yonder  is  the  sea. 


EVELYN   HOPE. 


BEAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 

Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  book-shelf,  this  her  bed  ; 
She  plucked  that  piece  of  geranium- 
flower, 

Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass  ; 
Little    has   yet    been   changed,    I 

think  : 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may 

pass 

Save   two   long   rays  through  the 
hinge's  chink. 


Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my 

name ; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love  ;  beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares,  — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of 
her. 

nr. 
Is  it  too  late  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire,  and  dew  — 


APPARENT  FAILURE. 


And  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 
And  our  paths  in  the  world  diverged 

so  wide, 
'Each  was  naught  to  each,  must  I  be 

told  ? 

We    were    fellow   mortals,  naught 
beside  ? 

IV. 

No,  indeed  !  for  God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 
And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the 

love  : 
I  claim  you  still,  for  my  own  love's 

sake  ! 

Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 
Through  worlds  I   shall   traverse, 

not  a  few  : 

Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 
Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking 
you. 

v. 
But  the  time  will  come,  —  at  last  it 

will. 
When,  Evelyn  Hope,  what  meant 

(I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long 

still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I  shall 

divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  gera- 
nium's red  — 
And  what  you  would  do  with  me,  in 

fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's 
stead. 

VI. 

I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much 

since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 
Ransacked   the   ages,    spoiled   the 

climes  ; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full 

scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me: 
Andlwantand  find  you, Evelyn  Hope ! 
What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see  ! 

vn. 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while  ! 
My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could 

hold  ; 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the 

frank  young  smile, 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the 
hair's  young  gold. 


So  hush,  —  I  will  give  you  this  leaf  to 

keep : 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold 

hand  ! 

There,  that  is  our  secret :  go  to  sleep  ! 
You  will  wake,  andr  emember,  and 
understand. 


MEMORABILIA. 


AH  !  did  you  once  see  Shelley  plain, 
And  did  he  stop  and  speak  to  you. 

And  did  you  speak  to  him  again  ? 
How  strange  it  seems,  and  new  ! 

ii. 

But  you  were  living  before  that, 
And  also  you  are  living  after  ; 

And  the  memory  I  started  at  — 
My  starting  moves  your  laughter  ! 

in. 
I  crossed  a  moor,  with  a  name  ol  Its 

own 
And  a  certain  use  in  the  world,  no 

doubt, 

Yet  a  hand's-breadth  of  it  shines  alone 
'Mid  the  blank  miles  round  about : 

IV. 

For  there  I  picked  up  on  the  heather 
And  there  I  put  inside  my  breast 

A  moulted  feather,  an  eagle-feather  ! 
Well,  I  forget  the  rest. 


APPARENT  FAILURE. 

"  We  shall  soon  lose  a  celebrated  building." 
Paris  Newspaper. 

I. 

No,  for  I'll   save  it !     Seven  years 

since, 
I  passed  through  Paris,  stopped  a 

day 

To  see  the  baptism  of  your  Prince  ; 
Saw,  made  my  bow,  and  went  my 
way : 


96 


PROSPICE. 


Walking  the  heat  and  headache  off, 
I  took  the  Seine-side,  you  surmise, 
Thought  of  the  Congress,  Gortscha- 

koff, 

Cavour's  appeal  and  Buol's  replies, 
So    sauntered    till  —  what    met    my 
eyes? 


Only  the  Doric  little  Morgue  ! 
The  dead-house  where  you    show 

your  drowned  : 
Petrarch's  Vaucluse  makes  proud  the 

Sorgue, 
Your  Morgue  has  made  the  Seine 

renowned. 

One  pays  one's  debt  in  such  a  case  ; 
I  plucked  up  heart  and  entered,  — 

stalked, 

Keeping  a  tolerable  face 
Compared  with  some  whose  cheeks 

were  chalked  : 

juet     them !      No     Briton's     to     be 
balked ! 


First  catne  the  silent  gazers  ;  next, 
A  screen  of  glass,  we're  thankful 

for ; 
Last,  the  sight's  self,  the  sermon's 

text, 

The  three  men  who  did  most  abhor 
Their  life  in  Paris  yesterday, 
So  killed    themselves  :    and    now, 

enthroned 
Each  on  his  copper  couch,  they  lay 

Fronting  me,  waiting  to  be  owned. 
I    thought,    and     think,    their    sin's 
atoned. 


Poor   men,    God    made,    and   all    for 

that ! 
The  reverence  struck  me ;  o'er  each 

head 

Religiously  was  hung  its  hat, 
Each  coat  dripped  by  the   owner's 

bed, 
Sacred    from    touch:     each    had    his 

berth,  * 

His   bounds,    his    proper    place    of 

rest, 

Who  last  night  tenanted  on  earth 
Some  arch,  where  twelve  such  slept 

abreast,  — 

Unless    the    plain     asphalte     seemed 
best. 


How  did  it  happen,  my  poor  boy? 

You  wanted  to  be  Buonaparte 
And  have  the  Tuileries  for  toy, 

And  could  not,  so  it  broke   you? 

heart  ? 
You,  old  one  by  his  side,  I  judge, 

Were,  red  as  blood,  a  socialist, 
A  leveller  !    Does  the  Empire  grudge 

You've   gained  what  no  Republic 

missed  ? 
Be  quiet,  and  unclinch  your  fist ! 


And  this  —  why,  he  was  red  in  vain, 

Or  black,  —  poor  fellow  that  is  blue  ! 
What  fancy  was  it,  turned  your  brain  ? 

Oh,  women  were  the  prize  for  you  ! 
Money  gets  women,  cards  and  dice 

Get  money,  and  ill-luck  gets  just 
The  copper  couch  and  one  clear  nice 

Cool  squirt  of  water  o'er  your  bust, 
The  right  thing  to  extinguish  lust ! 


It's  wiser  being  good  than  bad  ; 

It's  safer  being  meek  than  fierce  : 
It's  fitter  being  sane  than  mad. 

My  own  hope  is,  a  sun  will  pierce 
The     thickest     cloud      earth      ever 

stretched  ; 

That,  after  Last,  returns  the  First, 
Though  a  wide  compass    round    be 

fetched  ; 
That   what    began    best,    can't    end 

worst, 

Nor    what    God    blessed   once,  prove 
accurst. 


PROSPICE. 

•FEAR  death?  — to  feel  the  fog  in  my 

throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts 

denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of 

the  storm, 
The  post  of  the  foe ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a 

visible  form, 
Yet  the  strong  man  must  go : 


"CHILDE  ROLAND   TO   THE  DARK   TOWER   CAME.' 


97 


For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  sum- 
mit attained, 
And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though    a   battle's  to  fight  ere  the 

guerdon  be  gained, 
The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so  —  one  fight 

more, 

The  best  and  the  last ! 
I  would  hate  that  death   bandaged 

my  eyes,  and  forbore, 
And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No  !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare 

like  uiy  peers 
The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad 

life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness,  and  cold. 
For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best 

to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'   rage,  the   fiend- 
voices  that  rave, 
Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become    first    a 

peace  out  of  pain, 
Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  ray  soul  !    I  shall  clasp 

thee  again, 
And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 


"CHILDE   ROLAND   TO   THE 
DARK   TOWER   CAME." 

(See  Edgar's  song  in  "  LEAR.") 


MY  first  thought  was,  he  lied  in  every 

word, 
That  hoary  cripple,  with  malicious 

eye 
Askance  to  watch   the  working  of 

his  lie 
On  mine,  and  mouth  scarce  able  to 

afford 
Suppression  of  the  glee,  that  pursed 

and  scored 

Its  edge,  at  one  more  victim  gained 
thereby. 

n. 
What  else  should  he  be  set  for,  with 

his  staff? 

What,  save  to  waylay  with  his  lies, 
insnare 


All  travellers  who  might  find  him 

posted  there, 
And  ask  the  road  ?    I  guessed  what 

skull-like  laugh 
Would  break,  what  crutch  gin  write 

my  epitaph 

For  pastime  in  the  dusty  thorough- 
tare, 


If  at  his  counsel  I  should  turn  aside 
Into  that  ominous  tract  which,  all 

agree, 
Hides  the  Dark  Tower.    Yet  acqui- 

escingly 

I  did  turn  as  he  pointed:  neither  pride 
Nor  hope  rekindling  at  the  end  de- 
scried, 

So  much  as  gladness  that  some  end 
might  be. 


For,  what  with  my  whole  world-wide 

wandering, 
What  with   my  search  drawn  out 

through  years,  my  hope 
Dwindled  into  a  ghost  not  fit  to  cope 
With  that  obstreperous  joy  success 

would  bring,  — 
I   hardly    tried   now  to  rebuke  the 

spring 

My  heart  made,  finding  failure  in 
its  scope. 


As  when  a  sick  man  very  near  to 

death 
Seems  dead  indeed,  and  feels  begin 

and  end 
The  tears,  and  takes  the  farewell  of 

each  friend, 
And  hears  one  bid  the  other  go,  draw 

breath, 
Freelier  outside  ("since  all  is  o'er," 

he  saith, 

"  And  the  blow  fallen  no  grieving 
can  amend") ; 

VI. 

While  some  discuss  if  near  the  other 

graves 
Be  room  enough  for  this,  and  when 

a  day 
Suits  best  for  carrying  the  corpse 

away, 

With  care  about  the  banners,  scarves, 
and  staves  : 


98 


"  CHILDE  ROLAND    TO   THE   DARK   TO  WER    CAME: 


And  still  the  man  hears  all,  and  only 

craves 

He  may  not  shame  such  tender  love 
and  stay. 

vrr. 
Thus,  I  had  so  long  suffered  in  this 

quest, 
Heard    failure   prophesied   so   oft, 

been  writ 
So  many  times  among  "  The  Band  " 

—  to  wit, 
The  knights  who  to  the  Dark  Tower's 

search  addressed 
Their  steps  —  that  just  to  fail  as  they, 

seemed  best, 

And  all  the  doubt  was  now  —  should 
I  be  fit  ? 


So,  quiet  as  despair,  I  turned  from 

him, 

That  hateful  cripple,  out  of  his  high- 
way 
Into  the  path  he  pointed.    All  the 

day 
Had  been  a  dreary  one  at  best,  and 

dim 
Was  settling  to  its  close,  yet  shot  one 

grim 

Bed  leer  to  see  tLe  plain  catch  its 
estray. 


For  mark !    no  sooner  was  I  fairly 

found 
Pledged  to  the  plain,  after  a  pace 

or  two, 
Than,  pausing  to  throw  backward 

a  last  view 
O'er  the  safe  road,  'twas  gone  ;  gray 

plain  all  round  : 
Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's 

bound. 

I  might  go  on  :  naught  else  remained 
to  do. 


80,  on  I  went.    I  think  I  never  saw 
Such  starved  ignoble  nature  ;  noth- 
ing throve  : 

For  flowers  —  as  well  expect  a  ce- 
dar grove  ! 
But  cockle,  spurge,  according  to  their 

law 
Might  propagate  their  kind,  with  none 

to  awe, 

You'd  think  ;  a  burr  had  been  a 
treasure  trove. 


No  !  penury,  inertness,  and  grimace, 
In    some    strange    sort,    were    the 

land's  portion.    "  See 
Or  shut  your  eyes,"    said  Nature 

peevishly, 
"  It  nothing  skills  :  I  cannot  help  my 

case  : 
'Tis  the  Last  Judgment's  fire  must 

cure  this  place, 

Calcine  its  clods  and  set  my  prison- 
ers free." 


If  there  pushed  any  ragged  thistle- 
stalk 
Above   its   mates,    the   head    was 

chopped  ;  the  bents 
"Were   jealous    else.     What   made 

those  holes  and  rents 
In   the  dock's  harsh  swarth  leaves, 

bruised  as  to  balk 
All  hope  of  greenness  ?  'tis  a  brute 

must  walk 

Pashing  their  life  out,  with  a  brute's 
intents. 

XIII. 

As  for  the  grass,  it  grew  as  scant  as 

hair 
In  leprosy  :  thin  dry  blades  pricked 

the  mud 
Which  underneath  looked  kneaded 

up  with  blood. 
One  stiff  blind  horse,  his  every  bone 

a-stare, 
Stood    stupefied,   however    he    came 

there  : 

Thrust  put  past  service  from  the 
Devil's  stud ! 


Alive  ?  he  might  be  dead  for  aught  I 

know, 
With  that  red  gaunt  and  colloped 

neck  a-strain, 
And  shut  eyes  underneath  the  rusty 

mane  ; 
Seldom     went    such     grotesquenesa 

with  such  woe  ; 
I  never  saw  a  brute  I  hated  so  ; 
He  must  be  wicked  to  deserve  such 
pain. 

xv. 
I  shut  my  eyes  and  turned  them  on 

my  heart. 

As  a  man  calls  for  wine  before  h« 
fights, 


"Childe  Roland  to  the  Dark  Tower  came  "  —  Page  99,  Stanza  xxi. 


"  CHILDE  ROLAND   TO   THE  DARK   TO  WER   CAME. 


I  asked  one  draught  of  earlier,  hap- 
pier sights, 

Ere  fitly  I  could  hope  to  play  my  part. 
Think    first,    fight    afterwards  —  the 

soldier's  art : 

One  taste  of  the  old  time  sets  all  to 
rights. 


Not  it !  I  fancied  Cuthbert's  redden- 
ing face 

Beneath  its  garniture  of  curly  gold , 
Dear  fellow,  till  I  almost  felt  him 

fold 

An  arm  in  mine  to  fix  me  to  the  place, 
That  way  lie  used.    Alas,  one  night's 

disgrace ! 

Out  went  my  heart's  new  fire  and 
left  it  cold. 


Giles  then,  the  soul  of  honor  —  there 

he  stands 
Frank    as    ten    years    ago   when 

knighted  first. 
What  honest  man  should  dare  (he 

said)  he  durst. 
Good  —  but  the  scene  shifts  —  faugh  ! 

what  hangman  hands 
Pin  to  his  breast  a  parchment  ?    His 

own  bands 

Read   it.    Poor  traitor,   spit   upon 
and  curst ! 

xvur. 
Better  this  present  than  a  past  like 

that ; 
Back   therefore    to    my   darkening 

path  again ! 
No  sound,  no  sight  as  far  as  eye 

could  strain. 

Will  the  night  send  a  hpwlet  or  a  bat  ? 
I  asked  :  wnen  something  on  the  dis- 
mal flat 

Came  to  arrest  my  thoughts  and 
change  their  train. 


A.  sudden  little  river  crossed  my  path 
As  unexpected  as  a  serpent  comes. 
No  sluggish  tide  congenial  to  the 

glooms  ; 
This,  as  it  frothed  by,  might  have 

been  a  bath 
For  the  fiend's  glowing  hoof  —  to  see 

the  wrath 

Of    its    black   eddy   bespate    with 
flakes  and  spumes. 


So  petty  yet  so  spiteful !    All  along, 
Low  scrubby  alders  kneeled  down 

over  it ; 
Drenched  willows  flung  them  head. 

long  in  a  fit 

Of  mute  despair,  a  suicidal  throng  : 
The  river  which  had  done  them  all 

the  wrong, 

Whate'er  that  was,  rolled  by,  d& 
terred  no  whit. 


Which,  while  I  forded,  —  good  saints, 

how  I  feared 
To  set  my  foot  upon  a  dead  man's 

cheek, 
Each  step,  or  feel  the  spear  I  thrust 

to  seek 
For  hollows,  tangled  in  his  hair  or 

beard  ! 
—  It  may  have  been  a  water-rat   I 

speared, 

But,  ugh  !  it  sounded  like  a  baby's 
shriek. 

XXII. 

Glad  was  I  when  I  reached  the  other 

bank. 
Now   for  a   better  country.    Vain 

presage ! 
Who  were  the  strugglers,  what  war 

did  they  wage 
Whose   savage   trample   thus    could 

pad  the  dank 
Soil  to  a  plash  ?    Toads  in  a  poisoned 

tank, 
Or  wild  cats  in  a  red-hot  iron  cage  — 


The  fight  must  so  have  seemed  in  that 

fell  cirque. 
What  penned  them  there,  with  all 

the  plain  to  choose  ? 
No  footprint  leading  to  that  horrid 

mews, 
None  out  of  it.    Mad  brewage  set  to 

work 

Their  brains,  no  doubt,  like  galley- 
slaves  the  Turk 

Pits    for    his    pastime,    Christians 
against  Jews. 


And  more  than  that  —  a  furlong  on— 

why,  there  ! 

What  bad  use  was  that  engine  for. 
that  wheel, 


100        "  CHJLDE  ROLAND    TO    THE   DARK   TOWER   CAME." 


Or  brake,  not  wheel  —  that  harrow 

fit  to  reel 
Men's  bodies  out  like  silk  ?  with  all 

the  air 

Of  Tophet's  tool,  on  earth  left  una- 
ware, 

Or  brought  to  sharpen   its    rusty 
teeth  of  steel. 


Then  came  a  bit  of  stubbed  ground, 

once  a  wood, 
Next  a  marsh,  it  would  seem,  and 

now  mere  earth 
Desperate  and  done  with ;  (so  a  fool 

finds  inirth, 
Makes  a  thing  and  then  mars  it,  till 

his  mood 
Changes  and  off  he  goes  ! )    within  a 

rood  — 

Bog,  clay,  and   rubble,  sand   and 
stark  black  dearth. 


XXVI. 

Now  blotches  rankling,  colored  gay 

and  grim, 
Now  patches  where  some  leanness 

of  the  soil's 
Broke  into  moss  or  substances  like 

boils  ; 
Then  came  some  palsied  oak,  a  cleft 

in  him 
Like  a  distorted  mouth  that  splits  its 

rim 

Gaping  at  death,  and  dies  while  it 
recoils. 


A.nd   just  as  far  as   ever  from   the 

end  : 

Naught  in  the  distance  but  the  even- 
ing, naught 
To  point  my  footstep  farther !    At 

the  thought, 
A  great  black  bird,  Apollyon's  bosom 

friend, 
Sailed  past,  nor  beat  his  wide  wing 

dragon-penned 

That  brushed  my  cap — perchance 
the  guide  I  sought. 

xxvm. 
For,  looking  up,  aware  I  somehow 

grew, 

'Spite  of  the  dusk,  the  plain  had 
given  place 


All  round  to  mountains  —  with  such 

name  to  grace 
Mere   ugly   heights  and   heaps    now 

stolen  in  view. 
How  thus  they  had  surprised  me,  — 

solve  it,  you  ! 

How    to    get    from    them    was    no 
clearer  case. 

XXIX. 

Yet  half  I  seemed  to  recognize  some 

trick 
Of  mischief  happened  to  me,  God 

knows  when  — 
In   a   bad   dream    perhaps.    Here 

ended, then, 
Progress   this   way.    When,    in    the 

very  nick 
Of  giving  up,  one  time  more,  came  a 

click 

As  wlien  a  trap  shuts  —  you're  in- 
side the  den 


Burningly  it  came  or  me  all  at  once, 
This  was  the  place  !  those  two  hills 

on  the  right, 
Crouched   like   two    bulls    locked 

horn  in  born  in  fight ; 
While  to  the  left,  a  tall  scalped  moun- 
tain .  .  .  Dunce, 

Dotard,  a-dpzing  at  The  very  nonce, 
After  a  life  spent  training  for  the 
sight ! 

XXXI. 

What  in  the  midst  lay  but  the  Tower 

itself? 
The   round  squat  turret,  blind  as 

the  fool's  heart, 
Built  of   brown  stone,   without  a 

counterpart 
In  the  whole  world.    The  tempest's 

mocking  elf 
Points  to  the  shipraaii  thus  the  unseen 

shelf 

He  strikes  on,  only  when  the  tim- 
bers start. 


Not  see  ?  because  of  night  perhaps  ?— 

why,  day 
Came  back  again  for  that !  before  it 

left, 
The  dying  sunset  kindled  through 

a  cleft : 

The  hills,  like  giants  at  a  hunting, 
lay, 


A    GRAMMARIAN'S   FUNERAL. 


Chin  upon  hand,  to  see  the  game  at 

bay,  — 

"  Now  stab  and  end  the  creature  — 
to  the  heft !  " 

XXXIII. 

Not   hear?    when   noise   was  every- 
where !  it  tolled 
Increasing  like  a  bell.    Names  in 

my  ears 
Of    all    the    lost   adventurers   my 

peers,  — 
How  such  a  one  was  strong,  and  such 

was  bold, 
And  such  was  fortunate,  yet  each  of 

old 

Lost,  lost !  one  moment  knelled  the 
woe  of  years. 

XXXIV. 

There    they  stood,  ranged    along    the 

hill-sides,  met 
To  view  the  last  of    me,    a    living 

frame 
For  one  more  picture  !    in  a  sheet  of 

tlame 
I   saw  them    and    I    knew   them   all. 

And  yet 
Dauntless  the  slug-horn  to  my  lips  I 

set, 

And    blew    "  Childe    Roland  to  the 
Dark  Tower  came." 


A  GRAMMARIAN'S 
FUNERAL. 

SHORTLY   AFTER    THE    REVIVAL 
OF    LEARNING    IX   EUROPE. 

LET  us  begin  and  carry  up  this  corpse, 

Singing  together. 

Leave    we    the    common    crofts,    the 
vulgar  thorpes, 

Each  in  its  tether 

Sleeping   safe    in    the    bosom    of   the 
plain, 

Cared-for  till  cock-crow : 
Look  out  if  yonder  be  not  day  again 

Rimming  the  rock-row ! 
That's  the  appropriate  country ;  there, 
man's  thought. 

Rarer,  intenser, 

Self-gathered   for  an  outbreak,  as    it 
ought, 
Chafes  in  the  censer. 


Leave  we  the  unlettered  plain  its  herd 
and  crop ; 

Seek  we  sepulture 
On  a  tall  mountain,  citied  to  the  top, 

Crowded  with  culture  ! 
All  the  peaks  soar,  but  one  the  rest 
excels  : 

Clouds  overcome  it ; 
No,  yonder  sparkle  is  the  citadel's 

Circling  its  summit. 
Thither  our  path  lies  ;  wind  we  up  the 
heights ! 

Wait  ye  the  warning? 
Our  low  life  was  the  level's  and  the 
night's  : 

He's  for  the  morning. 
Step  to  a  tune,  square  chests,  erect 
each  head, 

'Ware  the  beholders ! 
This  is  our  master,  famous,  calm,  and 
dead, 
Borne  on  our  shoulders. 

Sleep,  crop  and  herd  !  sleep,  darkling 
thorpe  and  croft 

Safe  from  the  weather  ! 
He,  whom  we  convoy  to  his  grave 
aloft, 

Singing  together, 

He  was  a  man  born  with  thy  face  and 
throat, 

Lyric  Apollo ! 

Long  he  lived  nameless  :  how  should 
spring  take  note 

Winter  would  follow  ? 
Till  lo,  the  little  touch,  and  youth 
was  gone  ! 

Cramped  and  diminished, 
Moaned  he,   "New  measures,  other 
feet  anon  ! 

"  My  dance  is  finished  ?  " 
No,  that's  the  world's  way;  (keep  the 
mountain  side, 

Make  for  the  city  !) 
He  knew  the  signal,  and  stepped  on 
with  pride 

Over  men's  pity ; 

Left  play  for  work,  and  grappled  with 
the  world 

Bent  on  escaping : 

"  What's   in   the  scroll,"  quoth   he, 
"  thou  keepest  furled  ? 

Show  me  their  shaping, 
Theirs  who  most  studied   man,  the 
bare1,  and  sage,  — 

Give  !  "  —  So,  he  gowned  him, 
Straight  got  by  heart  that  book  to  its 
last  page  : 
Learned,  we  found  him. 


102 


A    GRAMMARIAN'S  FUNERAL. 


Yea,  but  we  found  him  bald  too,  eyes 
like  lead, 

Accents  uncertain  : 
"  Time  to  taste  life, "  another  would 
have  said, 

"  Up  with  the  curtain  !  " 
This  man  said  rather,  "  Actual  life 
comes  next  ? 

Patience  a  moment ! 
Grant   1   have    mastered    learning's 
crabbed  text, 

Still  there's  the  comment. 
Let  me  know  all !    Prate  not  of  most 
or  least, 

Painful  or  easy ! 

Even  to  the  crumbs  I'd  fain  eat  up 
the  feast, 

Ay,  nor  feel  queasy." 
Oh,  such  a  life  as  he  resolved  to  live, 

"When  he  had  learned  it, 
When  he  had  gathered  all  books  had 
to  give  ! 

Sooner,  he  spurned  it. 
Image  the  whole,  then  execute  the 
parts  — 

Fancy  the  fabric 

Quite,  ere  you  build,  ere  steel  strike 
fire  from  quartz, 
Ere  mortar  dab  brick  ! 

(Here's     the      town-gate     reached ; 
there's  the  market-place 

Gaping  before  us.) 
Yea,  this  in  him  was  the  peculiar  grace 

(Hearten  our  chorus !) 
That  before  living  he'd  learn  how  to 
live  — 

No  end  to  learning  : 
Earn  the   means  first  —  God  surely 
will  contrive 

Use  for  our  earning. 
Others  mistrust  and  say,  "  But  time 
escapes ! 

Live  now  or  never  !  " 
He  said,  "  "What's  time  ?    Leave  Now 
for  dogs  and  apes  ! 

Man  has  Forever.  '' 
Back    to    his    book    then  :    deeper 
drooped  his  head  : 

Calculus  racked  him : 
Leaden  before,  his  eyes  grew  dross  of 
lead  : 

Tussis  attacked  him. 
'•Now,  master,  take  a  little  rest ! "  — 
not  he  ! 

(Caution  redoubled ! 
Step   two   abreast,    the   way    winds 
narrowly !) 
Not  a  whit  troubled, 


Back  to  his  studies,  fresher  than  at 
first, 

Fierce  as  a  dragon 

He    (soul-hydroptic    with    a    sacred 
thirst) 

Sucked  at  the  flagon. 
Oh,  if  we  draw  a  circle  premature, 

Heedless  of  far  gain, 
Greedy  for  quick  returns  of  profit 
sure 

Bad  is  our  bargain  ! 
Was  it  not  great?  did  not  he  throV» 
on  God 

(He  loves  the  burthen) — 
God's  task  to  make  the  heavenly  pe- 
riod 

Perfect  the  earthen  ? 
Did  not  he  magnify  the  mind,  show 
clear 

Just  what  it  all  meant  ? 
He  would  not  discount  life,  as  fools 
do  here, 

Paid  by  instalment. 
He  ventured  neck  or  nothing  —  heav- 
en's success 

Found,  or  earth's  failure  : 
"  Wilt  thou  trust  death  or  not  ?  "     He 
answered,  "  Yes ! 

Hence  with  life's  pale  lure  !  " 
That  low  man  seeks  a  little  thing  to 
do, 

Sees  it  and  does  it : 
This  high  man,  with  a  great  thing  to 
pursue, 

Dies  ere  he  knows  it. 
That  low  man  goes  on  adding  one  to 
one, 

His  hundred's  soon  hit : 
This   high    man,    aiming   at    a    mil- 
lion, 

Misses  an  unit. 

That,  has  the  world  here  —  should  he 
need  the  next, 

Let  the  world  mind  him  ! 
This,  throws  himself  on  God,  and  un 
perplexed 

Seeking  shall  find  him. 
So,  with  the  throttling  hands  of  death 
at  strife, 

Ground  he  at  grammar  ; 
Still,    through    the    rattle,    parts    of 
speech  were  rife  : 

While  he  could  stammer 
He    settled   Hoti's   business  —  let   it 
be!  — 

Properly  based  Oun  — 
Gave  us  the  doctrine  of  the  enclitic 
De, 
Dead  from  the  waist  down. 


CLEON. 


103 


Well,  here's  the  platform,  here's  the 
proper  place : 

Hail  to  your  purlieus, 
All  ye  highfliers  of  the  feathered  race, 

Swallows  and  curlews ! 
Here's  the  top-peak  ;   the  multitude 
below 

Live,  for  they  can,  there  : 
This   man    decided  not  to  Live  but 
Know  — 

Bury  this  man  there  ? 
Here  —  here's  his  place,  where  mete- 
ors shoot,  clouds  form, 

Lightnings  are  loosened, 
Stars  come  and  go  !    Let  joy  break 
with  the  storm, 

Peace  let  the  dew  send  ! 
Lofty  designs  must  close  in  like  ef- 
fects : 

Loftily  lying, 

Leave    him  —  still    loftier   than    the 
world  suspects, 
Living  and  dying. 


CLEON. 

"  As  certain  also  of  your  own  poets  have 
said"  — 

CLKON  the  poet  (from  the  sprinkled 

isles, 

Lily  on  lily,  that  o'erlace  the  sea, 
And  laugh  their  pride  when  the  light 

wave  lisps  "  Greece  "),  — 
To    Protus    in    his   Tyranny :    much 

health ! 

They  give  thy  letter  to  me,  even 

now : 
I  read  and  seem  as  if  I  heard  thee 

speak. 

The  master  of  thy  galley  still  unlades 
Gift  after  gift ;  they  block  my  court 

.  at  last 

And  pile  themselves  along  its  portico 
Royal  with  sunset,  like  a  thought  of 

thee  ; 
And  one  white  she-slave,  from  the 

group  dispersed 
Of  black  and  white  slaves  (like  the 

checker-work 
Pavement,  at  once  my  nation's  work 

and  gift, 
Now  covered  with  this  settle-down  of 

doves) 


One  lyric  woman,  in  her  crocus  vest 
Woven   of   sea-wools,   with  her  two 

white  hands 
Commends  to  me  the  strainer  and  the 

cup 
Thy  lip  hath  bettered  ere  it  blesses 

mine. 

Well  counselled,  king,  in  thy  mu- 
nificence ! 

For  so  shall  men  remark,  in  such  an 
act 

Of  love  for  him  whose  song  gives  life 
its  joy, 

Thy  recognition  of  the  iise  of  life  : 

Nor  call  thy  spirit  barely  adequate 

To  help  on  life  in  straight  ways,  broad 
enough 

For  vulgar  souls,  by  ruling  and  the 
rest. 

Thou,  in  the  daily  building  of  thy 
tower,  — 

Whether  in  fierce  and  sudden  spasms 
of  toil. 

Or  through  dim  lulls  of  unapparent 
growth, 

Or  when  the  general  work,  'mid  good 
acclaim, 

Climbed  with  the  eye  to  cheer  the 
architect,  — 

Didst  ne'er  engage  in  work  for  mere 
work's  sake  : 

Hadst  ever  in  thy  heart  the  luring 
hope 

Of  some  eventual  rest  a-top  of  it, 

Whence,  all  the  tumult  of  the  build- 
ing hushed, 

Thou  first  of  men  mightst  look  out  to 
the  East : 

The  vulgar  saw  thy  tower,  thou  saw- 
est  the  sun. 

For  this,  I  promise  on  thy  festival 

To  pour  libation,  looking  o'er  the  sea, 

Making  this  slave  narrate  thy  for- 
tunes, speak 

Thy  great  words,  and  describe  thy 
royal  face  — 

Wishing  thee  wholly  where  Zeus  lives 
the  most, 

Within  the  eventual  element  of  calm. 

Thy  letter's  first  requirement  meets 

me  here. 
It  is  as  thou  hast  heard  :  in  one  short 

life 

I,  Cleon,  have  effected  all  those  things 
Thou  wonderingly  dost  enumerate. 
That  epos  on  thy  hundred  plates  of 

gold 


CLEON. 


Is  mine,  and  also  mine  the  little  chant 
So  sure  to  rise  from  every  fishing- 
bark 
When,   lights  at   prow,  the   seamen 

haul  their  net. 
The    image   of   the   sun-god   on  the 

phare, 
Men  turn  from  the  sun's  self  to  see,  is 

mine  ; 
The    Poecile,    o'er-storied    its    whole 

length, 
As  thou  didst  hear,  with  painting,  is 

mine  too. 

I  know  the  true  proportions  of  a  man 
And  woman  also,  not  observed  before ; 
And  I  have  written  three  books  on 

the  soul, 

Proving  absurd  all  written  hitherto, 
And  putting  us  to  ignorance  again. 
For  music,  —  why,  I  have  combined 

the  moods, 
Inventing  one.     In  brief,  all  arts  are 

mine ; 

Thus  much  the  people  know  and  rec- 
ognize, 
Throughout    our    seventeen   islands. 

Marvel  not ! 
We  of  these  latter  days,  with  greater 

mind 
Than    our    forerunners,    since    more 

composite, 
Look  not  so  great,  beside  their  simple 

way, 
To  a  judge  who  only  sees  one  way  at 

once, 
One  mind-point   and  no   other  at  a 

time.  — 
Compares  the  small  part  of  a  man  of 

us 
"With  some  whole  man  of  the  heroic 

age, 
Great    in    his    way  —  not    ours,    nor 

meant  for  ours. 
And  ours  is  greater,  had  we  skill  to 

know  : 
For,  what  we  call  this  life  of  men  on 

earth, 

This  sequence  of  the  soul's  achieve- 
ments here, 

Being,  as  I  find  much  reason  to  con- 
ceive, 

Intended  to  be  viewed  eventually 
As  a  great  whole,  not  analyzed   to 

parts, 
But   each   part  having  reference  to 

all,— 
How  shall  a  certain  part,  pronounced 

complete, 
Endure  effacement  by  another  part  ? 


Was  the  thing  done?  —  then,  what's 

to  do  again  ? 

See,  in  the  checkered  pavement  oppo- 
site, 
Suppose  the   artist   made   a   perfect 

rhomb, 
And  next  a  lozenge,  then  a  trape- 

zoid  — 

He  did  not  overlay  them,   superim- 
pose 

The  new  upon  the  old  and  blot  it  out, 
But  laid  them  on  a  level  in  his  work, 
Making  at  last  a  picture ;  there  it 

lies. 
So  first  the   perfect  separate  forms 

were  made, 
The  portions  of  mankind  ;  and  after, 

so, 
Occurred    the    combination    of    the 

same. 

For  where  had  been  a  progress,  other- 
wise ? 
Mankind,  made  up  of  all  the  single 

men,  — 

In  such  a  synthesis  the  labor  ends. 
Now  mark  me  !  those  divine  men  of 

old  rime 
Have  reached,  thou  sayest  well,  each 

at  one  point 
The  outside  verge  that  rounds   our 

faculty  ; 
And  where  they  reached,  who  can  do 

more  than  reach  ? 

It  takes  but  little  water  just  to  touch 
At  some  one  point  the  inside  of    a 

sphere, 
And,  as  we  turn  the  sphere,  touch  all 

the  rest 

In  due  succession  :  but  the  finer  air 
Which  not  so  palpably  nor  obviously, 
Though  no  less  universally,  can  touch 
The    whole    circumference    of    that 

emptied  sphere, 
Fills  it  more  fully   than   the   water 

did; 
Holds  thrice  the  weight  of  water  in 

itself 

Resolved  into  a  subtler  element. 
And  yet  the  vulgar  call  the  sphere 

first  full 
Up  to  the  visible  height  — and  after, 

void  ; 

Not  knowing  air's  more  hiddea  prop- 
erties. 
And  thus  our  soul,  misknown,  cries 

out  to  Zeus 

To  vindicate  his  purpose  in  our  life  : 
Why  stay  we  on  the  earth  unless  to 

grow? 


CLEON. 


105 


Long  since,  I  imaged,  wrote  the  fic- 
tion out, 

That  ho  or  other  god  descended  here 
And,  once  for  all,  showed  simultane- 
ously 
What,  in   its   nature,  never  can   be 

shown 
Piecemeal  or  in  succession  ;  showed, 

I  say, 

The  worth  both  absolute  and  relative 
Of  all  his  children  from  the  birth  of 

time, 
His    instruments    for    all    appointed 

work. 
I  now  go  on  to  image,  —  might  we 

hear 
The  judgment  which  should  give  the 

due  to  each, 
Show  where  the  labor  lay  and  where 

the  ease, 
And   prove    Zeus'    self,    the    latent 

everywhere ! 
This  is  a  dream  :  —  but  no  dream,  let 

us  hope, 
That  years  and  days,  the  summers 

and  the  springs, 
Follow   each   other   with   uuwaning 

powers. 
The  grapes  which  dye  thy  wine,  are 

richer  far 
Through  culture,  than  the  wild  wealth 

of  the  rock  ; 

The    suave    plum   than   the    savage- 
tasted  drupe  ; 
The  pastured  honey-bee  drops  choicer 

sweet  ; 
The    flowers    turn    double,    and    the 

leaves  turn  flowers  ; 
That    young    and    tender     crescent 

moon,  thy  slave, 
Sleeping   upon   her   robe   as    if    on 

clouds, 

Refines  upon  the  women  of  my  youth. 
What,  and  the  soul  alone  deteriorates  ? 
I  have  not  chanted  verse  like  Homer, 

no  — 
Nor  swept  string  like  Terpander,  no  — 

nor  carved 
And  painted  men  like  Phidias  and 

his  friend  : 
I  am  not  great  as  they  are,  point  by 

point. 

But  I  have  entered  into  sympathy 
With  these  four,  running  these  into 

one  soul, 
Who,  separate,  ignored  each  others' 

arts. 
Say,  is  it  nothing  that  I  know  them 

all? 


The   wild-flower  was  the   larger ;   I 

have  dashed 
Rose-blood  upon  its  petals,    pricked 

its  cup's 
Honey  with  wine,  and  driven  its  seed 

to  fruit, 
And  show  a  better  flower  if  not  so 

large  . 
I   stand   myself.    Refer   this  to  the 

gods 
Whose  gift  alone  it  is  !  which,  shall  1 

dare 
(All   pride    apart)    upon   the   absurd 

pretext 
That  such  a  gift  by  chance  lay  in  my 

hand, 

Discourse  of  lightly  or  depreciate  ? 
It    might    have    fallen    to    another's 

hand  :  what  then  ? 
I  pass  too  surely  :  let  at  least  truth 

stay  ! 

And  next,  of  what  thou  followest 

on  to  ask. 
This  being  with  me,  as  I  declare,  O 

king ! 
My  works   in  all   these   varicolored 

kinds, 

So  done  by  me,  accepted  so  by  men  — 
Thou  askest,  if  (my  soul  thus  in  men's 

hearts) 

I  must  not  be  accounted  to  attain 
The  very  crown  and  proper  end  of 

life? 
Inquiring  thence  how,  now  life  closeth 

up, 
I  face  death  with  success  in  my  right 

hand  . 
Whether  I  fear  death  less  than  dost 

thyself 
The    fortunate    of    men?       "For" 

(writest  thou), 
"  Thou  leavest  much  behind,  while  I 

leave  naught. 
Thy  life  stays  in  the  poems  men  shall 

sing,  " 
I  The  pictures  men  shall  study  ;  while 

my  life, 
Complete  and  whole  now  in  its  power 

and  joy, 
Dies  altogether  with  my  brain  and 

arm, 
Is  lost  indeed  ;  since,  what  survives 

myself? 
The   brazen   statue   to    o'erlook    my 

grave, 

Set  on  the  promontory  which  I  named. 
And  that  —  some  supple  courtier  of 

my  heir 


106 


CLEON. 


Shall  use  its  robed  and  sceptred  arm, 

perhaps 
To  fix  the  rope  to,  which  best  drags  it 

down. 
I  go  then  :  triumph  thou,  who  dost 

not  go !  " 

Nay,  thou  art  worthy  of  hearing  my 

whole  mind. 
Is  this  apparent,  when  thou  turn'st  to 

muse 
Upon  the  scheme  of  earth  and  man  in 

chief, 
That  admiration  grows  as 'knowledge 

grows  ? 
That  imperfection  means  perfection 

hid, 

Reserved  in  part,  to  grace  the  after- 
time  ? 

If,  in  the  morning  of  philosophy, 
Ere  aught  had  been   recorded,   nay 

perceived, 
Thou,  with  the   light  now  in  thee, 

couldst  have  looked 
On  all  earth's  tenantry,  from  worm 

to  bird, 
Ere  man,  her  last,  appeared  upon  the 

stage  — 
Thou  wouldst  have  seen  them  perfect, 

and  deduced 

The  perfectness  of  others  yet  unseen. 
Conceding  which,  —  had    Zeus    then 

questioned  thee 
"  Shall  I  go  on  a  step,  improve  on 

this, 
Do  more  for  visible  creatures  than  is 

done  ?  " 
Thou  wouldst  have  answered,  "Ay, 

by  making  each 
Grow  conscious  in  himself  —  by  that 

alone. 
All's  perfect  else  :  the  shell  sucks  fast 

the  rock, 
The  fish  strikes  through  the  sea,  the 

snake  both  swims 
And  slides,  forth  range  the  beasts, 

the  birds  take  flight, 
Till  life's  mechanics  can  no  farther 

go  — 
And  all  this  joy  in  natural  life,  is 

put, 

Like  nre  from  off  thy  finger  into  each, 
So  exquisitely  perfect  is  the  same. 
But    'tis    pure    fire,  and    they  mere 

matter  are  : 
It  has  them,  not  they  it ;  and  so  I 

choose 

For  man,  thy  last  premeditated  work 
(If  I  might  add  a  glory  to  the  scheme) 


That  a  third  thing  should  stand  apart 
from  both, 

A  quality  arise  within  his  soul, 

Which,  intro-active,  made  to  super- 
vise 

And  feel  the  force  it  has,  may  view  it- 
self, 

And  so  be  happy."  Man  might  live 
at  Hrst 

The  animal  life  :  but  is  there  nothing 
more? 

In  due  time,  let  him  critically  learn 

How  he  lives  ;  and,  the  more  he  gets 
to  know 

Of  his  own  life's  adaptabilities, 

The  more  joy-giving  will  his  life  be- 
come. 

Thus  man,  who  hath  this  quality,  is 
best. 

But  thou,  king,  hadst  more  reasona- 
bly said  : 
"Let  progress    end    at  once,  —  man 

make  no  step 
Beyond  the  natural  man,  the  better 

beast, 
Using  his  senses,  not  the  sense    of 

sense ! " 
In  man  there's  failure,  only  since  he 

left 
The  lower  and  inconscious  forms  of 

life. 

We  called  it  an  advance,  the  render- 
ing plain 
Man's  spirit  might  grow  conscious  of 

man's  life, 
And,  by   new  lore  so  added  to  the 

old, 
Take  each  step  higher  over  the  brute's 

head. 

This  grew  the  only  life,  the  pleasure- 
house, 
Watch-tower  and  treasure-fortress  of 

the  soul, 
Which   whole    surrounding    flats    of 

natural  life 
Seemed  only  fit  to  yield  subsistence 

to; 
A  tower  that  crowns  a  country.    But 

alas, 
The  soul  now  climbs  it  just  to  perish 

there  ! 
For  thence  we  have  discovered  ('tis 

no  dream  — 
We  know  this,  which  we  had  not  else 

perceived) 

That  there's  a  world  of  capability 
For  joy,  spread  round  about  us,  meant 

for  us, 


CLEON. 


107 


Inviting  us  ;  and  still  the  soul  craves 

all, 
And  still  the  flesh 're  plies,  "Take  no 

jot  more 
Than  ere  thou  clombst  the  tower  to 

look  abroad  ! 
Nay,  so  much  less  as  that  fatigue  has 

brought 
Deduction  to  it."    "We  struggle,  fain 

to  enlarge 

Our  bounded  physical  recipiency, 
Increase  our  power,  supply  fresh  oil 

to  life, 
Hepair  the  waste  of  age  and  sickness  : 

no, 

It  skills  not !  life's  inadequate  to  joy, 
As  the  soul  sees  joy,  tempting  life  to 

take. 
They  praise  a  fountain  in  my  garden 

here 

Wherein  a  Naiad  sends  the  water-bow 
Thin  from  her  tube  :  she  smiles  to  see 

it  rise. 

What  if  I  told  her,  it  is  just  a  thread 
From  that  great  river  which  the  hills 

shut  up, 
And  mock  her  with  my  leave  to  take 

the  same  ? 
The  arti  fleer  has  given  her  one  small 

tube 
Past  power  to  widen  or  exchange  — 

what  boots 
To  know  she  might  spout  oceans  if 

she  could  ? 
She  cannot  lift  beyond  her  first  thin 

thread  : 
And  so  a  man  can  use  but  a  man's 

joy 

While  he  sees  God's.  Is  it  for  Zeus 
to  boast, 

"  See,  man,  how  happy  I  live,  and  de- 
spair — 

That  I  may  be  still  happier — for  thy 
use ! " 

If  this  were  so,  ve  could  not  thank 
our  lord, 

As  hearts  beat  on  tc  doing :  'tis  not 
so  — 

Malice  it  is  not.    Is  it  carelessness  ? 

Still,  no.  If  care  —  where  Js  the  sign  ? 
I  ask, 

And  get  no  answer,  and  ascree  in 
sum, 

0  king !  with  thy  profound  discour- 
agement, 

Who  seest  the  wider  but  to  sijch  the 
more. 

Most  progress  is  most  failure  :  thou 
sayest  well. 


The  last  point  now.    Thou  dost  ex- 
cept a  case  — 

Holding  joy  not  impossible  to  one 
With  artist-gifts  —  to  such  a  man  as  1 
Who  leave  behind  me  living  works 

indeed ; 
For,  such  a  poem,  such   a  painting 

lives. 
What?  dost  thou  verily  trip  upon  a 

word, 
Confound  the  accurate  view  of  what 

joy  is 

(Caught  somewhat  clearer  by  my  eyes 

than  thine) 

With  feeling  joy  ?  confound  the  know- 
ing how 

And  showing  how  to  live  (my  faculty) 
With  actually  living  ?  —    Otherwise 
Where  is  the  artist's  vantage  o'er  the 

king  ? 

Because  in  my  great  epos  I  display 
How  divers  men  young,  strong,  fair, 

wise,  can  act  — 
Is   this   as   though    I   acted  ?     if    I 

paint, 
Carve  the  young  Phoebus,  am  I  there- 

fore  young  ? 

Methinks  I'm  older  that  I  bowed  my- 
self 
The  many  years  of  pain  that  taught 

me  art ! 
Indeed,  to  know  is  something,  and  to 

prove 

How  all  this  beauty  might   be    en- 
joyed, is  more  : 
But,  knowing    naught,  to    enjoy    is 

something  too. 
Yon  rower,  with  the  moulded  muscles 

there, 

Lowering  the  sail,  is  nearer  it  than  I. 
I  can  write  love-odes  :  thy  fair  slave's 

an  ode. 
I  get  to  sing  of  love,  when  grown  too 

gray 
For  being  beloved  :  she  turns  to  that 

young  man, 

The  muscles  all  a-ripple  on  his  back. 
I  know  the  joy  of  kingship :  well, 

thou  art  king  ! 
"But,"  sayest  thou  —  (and  I  marvel, 

I  repeat, 
To  find  thee  tripping  on  a  mere  word) 

"what 
Thou  writest,  paintest,  stays  ;   that 

does  not  dio. 
Sappho  survives,  because  we  sing  her 

songs, 
And  ^Escliylus,  because  we  read  his 

plays ! " 


108 


JNSTANS   TYRANNUS. 


Why,  if  they  live  still,  let  them  come 
and  take 

Thy  slave  in  my  despite,  drink  from 
thy  cup, 

Speak  in  my  place.  Thou  diest  while 
I  survive  ? 

Say  rather  that  my  fate  is  deadlier 
still, 

In  this,  that  every  day  my  sense  of 
joy 

Grows  more  acute,  my  soul  (intensi- 
fied 

By  power  and  insight)  more  enlarged, 
more  keen; 

While  every  day  my  hair  falls  more 
and  more, 

My  hand  shakes,  and  the  heavy  years 
increase  — 

The  horror  quickening  still  from  year 
to  year, 

The  consummation  coming  past  es- 
cape, 

When  I  shall  know  most,  and  yet 
least  enjoy  — 

When  all  my  works  wherein  I  prove 
my  worth, 

Being  present  still  to  mock  me  in 
men's  mouths, 

Alive  still,  in  the  phrase  of  such  as 
thou, 

I,  I  the  feeling,  thinking,  acting 
man, 

The  man  who  loved  his  life  so  over- 
much, 

Shall  sleep  in  my  urn.  It  is  so  hor- 
rible, 

I  dare  at  times  imagine  to  my  need 

Some  future  state  revealed  to  us  by 
Zeus, 

Unlimited  in  capability 

For  joy,  as  this  is  in  desire  for  joy, 

—  To  seek  which,  the  joy-hunger 
forces  us  : 

That,  stung  by  straitness  of  our  life, 
made  strait 

On  purpose  to  make  prized  the  life  at 
large  — 

Freed  by  the  throbbing  impulse  we 
call  death, 

We  burst  there,  as  the  worm  into  the 
«y, 

Who,  while  a  worm  still,  wants  his 

wings.     But  no ! 

Zeus  has  not  yet  revealed  it ;  and  alas, 
He  must  have  done  so,  were  it  possi- 
ble ! 

Live  long  and  happy,  and  in  that 
thought  die, 


Glad  for  what  was  !     Farewell.    And 

for  the  rest, 

I  cannot  tell  thy  messenger  aright 
Where  to  deliver  what  he  bears  of 

thine 
To  one  called  Paulus  ;  we  have  heard 

his  fame 
Indeed,  if  Christus  be  not  one  with 

him  — 
I  know  not,  nor  am  troubled  much  to 

know. 
Thou  canst  not  think  a  mere  barbarian 

Jew 
As  Paulus  proves  to  be,  one  circum- 

cised, 

Hath  access  to  a  secret  shut  from  tis  ? 
Thou    wrongest    our    philosophy,    O 

king, 
In  stooping  to  inquire  of   such    an 

one, 

As  if  his  answer  could  impose  at  all ! 
He  \vriteth,  doth  he?  well,  and  he 

may  write. 
Oh,  the  Jew  findeth  scholars  !  certain 

slaves 
Who    touched    on    this    same    isle, 

preached  him  and  Christ  ; 
And  (as  I  gathered  from  a  by-stander) 
Their  doctrine  could  be  held  by  no 

sane  man. 


INSTAXS   TYRAXNUS. 


OF  the  million  or  two,  more  or  less, 
I  rule  and  possess, 
One  man,  for  some  cause  undefined, 
Was  least  to  my  mind. 


I  struck  him,  he  grovelled  of  course  — 

For,  what  was  his  force  ? 

I  pinned  him  to  earth  with  my  weight 

And  persistence  of  hate  ; 

And  he  lay,  would  not  moan,  would 

not  curse, 
As  his  lot  might  be  worse. 


"Were  the  object  less  mean   would 

he  stand 

At  the  swing  of  my  hand  ! 
For  obscurity  helps  him,  and  blots 
The  hole  where  he  squats." 


AN  EPISTLE. 


109 


So,  I  set  my  five  wits  on  the  stretch 

To  inveigle  the  wretch. 

All   in   vain !     Gold   and   jewels    I 

threw, 

Still  he  couched  there  perdue  ; 
I  tempted  his  blood  and  his  flesh, 
Hid  in  roses  my  mesh, 
Choicest  cates  and  the  flagon's  best 

spilth  : 
Still  he  kept  to  his  filth. 


Had  he  kith  now  or  kin,  were  access 

To  his  heart,  did  I  press  : 

Just  a  son  or  a  mother  to  seize  ! 

No  such  booty  as  these. 

Were  it  simply  a  friend  to  pursue 

'Mid  my  million  or  two, 

Who  could  pay  me,  in  person  or  pelf, 

What  he  owes  me  himself  ! 

No  :  I  could  not  but  smile  through 

my  chafe  : 

For  the  fellow  lay  safe 
As  his  mates  do,  the  midge  and  the 

nit, 
—  Through  minuteness,  to  wit. 


Then  a  humor  more  great  took  its 

place 

At  the  thought  of  his  face  : 
The   droop,    the    low    cares    of    the 

mouth, 

The  trouble  uncouth 
'Twixt  the  brows,  all  that  air  one  is 

fain 

To  put  out  of  its  pain. 
And,  "  no  !  "  I  admonished  myself, 
"  Is  one  mocked  by  an  elf, 
Is  one  baffled  by  toad  or  by  rat  ? 
The  gravamen's  in  that ! 
How  the  lion,  who  crouches  to  suit 
His  back  to  my  foot, 
Would  admire  that  I  stand  in  debate  ! 
But  the  small  turns  the  great 
If  it  vexes  you,  —  that  is  the  thing  ! 
Toad  or  rat  vex  the  king  ? 
Though  I  waste  half  my  realm  to 

unearth 
Toad  or  rat,  'tis  well  worth  !  " 


So,  I  soberly  laid  my  last  plan 

To  extinguish  the  man. 

Round  his  creep-hole,  with'  never  a 

break, 
Ban  my  fires  for  his  sake  ; 


Over-head,  did  my  thunder  combine 
With  my  under-ground  mine  : 
Till  I  looked  from  my  labor  content 
To  enjoy  the  event 


When  sudden  .  .  .  how  think  ye.  the 

end? 

Did  I  say  "  without  friend  "  ? 
Say  rather,  from  marge  to  blue  marge 
The  whole  sky  grew  his  targe 
With  the  sun's  self  for  visible  boss, 
While  an  Arm  ran  across, 
Which  the  earth  heaved  beneath  like 

a  breast, 

Where  the  wretch  was  safe  prest ! 
Do   you   see  ?    Just   my   vengeance 

complete, 

The  man  sprang  to  his  feet, 
Stood  erect,  caught  at  God's  skirts, 

and  prayed  ! 
—  So,  /  was  afraid  ! 


AN  EPISTLE 

CONTAINING  THE  STRANGE  MEDI- 
CAL EXPERIENCE  OF  KARSHISH, 
THE  ARAB  PHYSICIAN. 

KARSHISH,  the  picker-up  of  learning's 

crumbs, 

The   not-incurious   in   God's   handi- 
work 
(This  man's-flesh  he  hath  admirably 

made, 
Blown  like  a  bubble,  kneaded  like  a 

paste, 
To  coop  up  and  keep  down  on  earth 

a  space 
That  puff  of  vapor  from  his  mouth , 

man's  soul) 

—  To  Abib,  all-sagacious  in  our  art, 
Breeder  in  me  of  what  poor  skill  I 

boast, 
Like  me  inquisitive  how  pricks  and 

cracks 
Befall  the  flesh   through  too   much 

stress  and  strain, 
Whereby  the  wily  vapor  fain  would 

slip 
Back  and  rejoin  its  source  before  the 

term,  — 
And    aptest   in   contrivance    (uuder 

God) 


110 


AN  EPISTLE. 


To  baffle  it  by  deftly  stopping  such  :  — 

The  vagrant  Scholar  to  his  Sage  at 
home 

Sends  greeting  (health  and  knowl- 
edge, fame  with  peace) 

Three  samples  of  true  snake-stone  — 
rarer  still, 

One  of  the  other  sort,  the  melon- 
shaped 

(But  fitter,  pounded  fine,  for  charms 
than  drugs), 

And  writeth  now  the  twenty-second 
time. 

My  journeyings    were  brought   to 

Jericho  : 
Thus   I  resume.    Who,  studious   in 

our  art, 

Shall  count  a  little  labor  unrepaid  ? 
I  have  shed  sweat  enough,  left  flesh 

and  bone 

On  many  a  flinty  furlong  of  this  land. 
Also,  the  country-side  is  all  on  fire 
With  rumors  of  a  marching  hither- 
ward. 
Some  say  Vespasian  cometh,  some, 

his  son. 
A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a 

tufted  ear  ; 
Lust  of  my  blood  inflamed  his  yellow 

balls  : 
I  cried  and  threw  my  staff,  and  he 

was  gone. 
Twice  have  the  robbers  stripped  and 

beaten  me, 
And  once  a  town  declared  me  for  a 

spy; 

But  at  the  end,  I  reach  Jerusalem, 
Since  this  poor  covert  where  I  pass 

the  night, 
This  Bethany,  lies  scarce  the  distance 

thence 
A  man  with  plague-sores  at  the  third 

degree 
Buns  till  he  drops  down  dead.    Thou 

laughest  here  ! 
'Sooth,  it  elates  me,  thus  reposed  and 

safe, 

To  void  the  stuffing   of  iny   travel- 
scrip, 
And  share  with  thee  whatever  Jewry 

yields. 

A  viscid  choler  is  observable 
In    tertians,  I   was    nearly  bold    to 

say  ; 
And  falling-sickness  hath  a  happier 

cure 
Than  our  school  wots  of  :  there's  a 

spider  here 


Weaves  no  web,  watches  on  the  ledge 
of  tombs, 

Sprinkled  with  mottles  on  an  ash- 
gray  back  ; 

Take  five  and  drop  them  .  .  .  but 
who  knows  his  mind, 

The  Syrian  runagate  I  trust  this  to  ? 

His  service  payeth  me  a  sublimate 

Blown  up  his  nose  to  help  the  ailing 
eye. 

Best  wait :  I  reach  Jerusalem  at  morn. 

There  set  in  order  my  experiences, 

Gather  what  most  deserves,  and  give 
thee  all  — 

Or  I  might  add,  Judaea's  gum-traga- 
canth 

Scales  off  in  purer  flakes,  shines 
clearer-grained, 

Cracks  'twixt  the  pestle  and  the  por- 
phyry, 

In  fine  exceeds  our  produce.  Scalp- 
disease 

Confounds  me,  crossing  so  with  lep- 
rosy : 

Thou  hadst  admired  one  sort  I  gained 
at  Zoar  — 

But  zeal  outruns  discretion.  Here  I 
end. 

Yet  stay  !  my  Syrian  blinketh  grate- 
fully, 

Protesteth  his  devotion  is  my  price  — 
Suppose    I   write    what    harms    not, 

though  he  steal  ? 

I  half  resolve  to  tell  thee,  yet  I  blush, 
What  set  me  off  a-writing  first  of 

all. 
An  itch  I  had,  a  sting  to  write,  a 

tang ! 
For,  be  it  this  town's  barrenness, — 

or  else 
The  Man  had  something  in  the  look 

of  him, — 
His  case  has  struck  me  far  more  than 

'tis  worth. 

So,  pardon  if  —  (lest  presently  I  lose, 
In  the  great  press  of  novelty  at  hand, 
The  care  and  pains  this  somehow 

stole  from  me) 
I  bid  thee  take  the  thing  while  fresh 

in  mind, 
Almost  in  sight  —  for,  wilt  thou  have 

the  truth  ? 
The  very  man  is  gone  from  me  but 

now, 

Whose  ailment  is  the  subject  of  dis- 
course. 
Thus    then,  and  let  thy  better  wit 

help  all ! 


"A  black  lynx  snarled  and  pricked  a  tufted  ear." — Page  no. 


AN  EPISTLE. 


Ill 


'Tis  but  a  case  of  mania :  sub- 
induced 

By  epilepsy,  at  the  turning-point 

Of  trance  prolonged  unduly  some 
three  days 

When,  by  the  exhibition  of  some  drug 

Or  spell,  exorcization,  stroke  of  art 

Unknown  to  me  and  which  'twere 
well  to  know, 

The  evil  thing,  out-breaking,  all  at 
once, 

Left  the  man  whole  and  sound  of  body 
indeed, — 

But,  flinging  (so  to  speak)  life's  gates 
too  wide, 

Making  a  clear  house  of  it  too  sud- 
denly, 

The  first  conceit  that  entered  might 
inscribe 

Whatever  it  was  minded  on  the  wall 

So  plainly  at  that  vantage,  as  it  were 

(First  come,  first  served),  that  nothing 
subsequent 

Attaineth  to  erase  those  fancy-scrawls 

The  just-returned  and  new-established 
soul 

Hath  gotten  now  so  thoroughly  by 
heart 

That  henceforth  she  will  read  or  these 
or  none. 

And  first  —  the  man's  own  firm  con- 
viction rests 

That  he  was  dead  (in  fact  they  buried 
him) 

—  That  he  was  dead  and  then  restored 

to  life 
By  a  Nazarene  physician  of  his  tribe : 

—  'Sayeth,  the  same  bade  "  Rise,"  and 

he  did  rise. 
"  Such  cases  are  diurnal,"  thou  wilt 

cry. 
Not  so  this  figment  \  —  not,  that  such 

a  fume, 
Instead  of  giving  way  to  time  and 

health, 

Should  eat  itself  into  the  life  of  life, 
As  saffron  tingeth  flesh,  blood,  bones, 

and  all  \ 

For  see,  how  he  takes  up  the  after- 
life. 

The  man  —  it  is  one  Lazarus  a  Jew, 
Sanguine,  proportioned,  fifty  years  of 

age, 

The  body's  habit  wholly  laudable, 
As  much,  indeed,  beyond  the  common 

health 
As  he  were  made  and  put  aside  to 

show. 
Think,  could  we  penetrate  by  any  drug 


And  bathe  the  wearied  soul  and  wor- 
ried flesh, 
And  bring  it  clear  and  fair,  by  three 

days'  sleep  \ 
Whence  has  the  man  the  balm  that 

brightens  all  ? 
This  grown  man  eyes  the  world  now 

like  a  child. 

Some  elders  of  his  tribe,  I  should  pre- 
mise, 
Led    in    their  friend,  obedient  as  a 

sheep, 
To  bear  my  inquisition.    While  they 

spoke, 
Now  sharply,  now  with  sorrow,  —  told 

the  case,  — 
He  listened  not  except  I   spoke  to 

him, 
But    folded  his    two    hands   and  let 

them  talk, 
Watching  the  flies  that  buzzed  :  and 

yet  no  fool. 
And  that's  a  sample  how  his  yeais 

must  go. 

Look  if  a  beggar,  in  fixed  middle-life, 
Should  find  a  treasure,  —  can  he  use 

the  same 
With  straitened  habitude  and  tastes 

starved  small, 
And  take  at  once  to  his  impoverished 

brain 
The    sudden    element   that   changes 

things, 
That  sets  the  undreamed-of  rapture 

at  his  hand, 
And  puts  the  cheap  old  joy  in  the 

scorned  dust  ? 
Is  he  not  such  an  one  as  moves  to 

mirth  — 

Warily  parsimonious,  when  no  need, 
Wasteful    as   drunkenness  at  undue 

times  ? 

All  prudent  counsel  as  to  what  befits 
The  golden  mean,  is  lost  on  such  an 

one  : 
The  man's  fantastic  will  is  the  man's 

law. 

So  here  —  we  call  the  treasure  knowl- 
edge, say, 

Increased  beyond  the  fleshly  facul- 
ty- 
Heaven  opened  to  a  soul  while  yet  on 

earth, 
Earth  forced  on  a  soul's  use  while 

seeing  heaven  : 
The  man  is  witless  of  the  size,  the 

sum, 

The  value  in  proportion  of  all  things, 
Or  whether  it  be  little  or  be  much. 


112 


AN  EPISTLE. 


Discourse  to  him  of  prodigious  arma- 
ments 

Assembled  to  besiege  his  city  now, 
And  of  the  passing  of  a  inule  with 

gourds  — 
'Tis  one  !    Then  take  it  on  the  other 

side, 
Speak  of  some  trifling  fact,  —  he  will 

gaze  rapt 

With  stupor  at  its  very  littleness 
(Far  as  I  see),  as  if  in  that  indeed 
He  caught  prodigious  import,  whole 

results  ; 

And  so  will  turn  to  us  the  by-standers 
In  ever  the  same  stupor  (note  this 

point), 
That  we,  too,  see  not  with  his  opened 

eyes. 
"Wonder  and  doubt  come  wrongly  into 

Play, 

Preposterously,  at  cross  purposes. 
Should  his  child  sicken  unto  death,  — 

why,  look 

For  scarce  abatement  of  his  cheerful- 
ness, 

Or  pretermission  of  the  daily  craft ! 
While  a  word,  gesture,  glance   from 

that  same  child 
At   play   or   in   the   school   or   laid 

asleep, 

Will  startle  him  to  an  agony  of  fear, 
Exasperation,  just  as  like.  Demand 
The  reason  why  —  "  'tis  but  a  word," 

object  — 
"  A  gesture  "  —  he  regards  thee  as  our 

lord 

Who  lived  there  in  the  pyramid  alone, 
Looked  at  us  (dost  thou  mind  ?)  when, 

being  young, 

We  both  would  unadvisedly  recite 
Some  charm's  beginning,  from  that 

book  of  his, 
Able  to  bid  the  sun  throb  wide  and 

burst 
All  into  stars,  as  suns  grown  old  are 

wont. 
Thou  and  the  child  have  each  a  veil 

alike 
Thrown  o'er  your  heads,  from  under 

which  ye  both 
Stretch  your  blind  hands  and  trifle 

with  a  match 
Over  a  mine  of  Greek  fire,  did  ye 

know  ! 
He  holds  on  firmly  to  some  thread  of 

life  — 

(It  is  the  life  to  lead  perforcedly) 
Which  runs  across  some  vast,  distract- 
ing orb 


Of  glory  on  either  side  that  meagre 

thread, 
Which,  conscious  of,  he  must  not  enter 

yet  — 
The  spiritual  life  around  the  earthly 

life: 
The  law  of  that  is  known  to  him  as 

this, 
His  heart  and  brain  move  there,  his 

feet  stay  here. 

So  is  the  man  perplext  with  impulses 
Sudden    to    start   off   crosswise,  not 

straight  on, 
Proclaiming  what  is  right  and  wrong 

across, 
And    not    along,    this   black    thread 

through  the  blaze  — 
"It  should  be"  balked  by  "here  it 

cannot  be." 
And  oft  the  man's  soul  springs  into 

his  face 

As  if  he  saw  again  and  heard  again 
His  sage  that  bade  him  "Rise,"  and 

he  did  rise. 
Something,  a  word,  a  tick  o'  the  blood 

within 
Admonishes  :  then  back  he  sinks  at 

once 

To  ashes,  who  was  very  fire  before, 
In  sedulous  recurrence  to  his  trade 
Whereby  he  earneth  him  the  daily 

bread  ; 
And  studiously  the  humbler  for  thr.t 

pride, 

Professedly  the  faultier  that  he  knows 
God's  secret,  while  he  holds  the  thread 

of  life. 
Indeed  the  especial  marking  of  the 

man 
Is  prone  submission  to  the  heavenly 

will  — 

Seeing  it,  what  it  is,  and  why  it  is. 
'Sayeth,  he  will  wait  patient  to  the 

last 

For  that  same  death  which  must  re- 
store his  being 

To  equilibrium,  body  loosening  soul 
Divorced  even  now  by  premature  full 

growth : 
He  will  live,  nay,  it  pleaseth  him  to 

live 
So  long  as  God  please,  and  just  how 

God  please. 
He  even  seeketh  not  to  please  God 

more 
(Which  meaneth,  otherwise)  than  as 

God  please. 
Hence,  I  perceive  not  he  affects  t« 

preach 


AN   EPISTLE. 


The  doctrine  of  his  sect  whate'er  it 

be, 
Make  proselytes  as  madrnen  thirst  to 

do: 
How  can  he  give  his  neighbor  the  real 

ground, 
His  own  conviction  ?    Ardent  as  he 

is  — 
Call  his  great  truth  a  lie,  whv,  still 

the  old 
"Be   it  as  God  please"  re-assureth 

him. 
I    probed    the    sore    as   thy   disciple 

should  : 
"How,   beast,"  said  I,   "this  stolid 

carelessness 
Sufficeth  thee,  when  Rome  is  on  her 

march 
To  stamp  out  like  a  little  spark  thy 

town, 
Thy  tribe,  thy  crazy  tale  and  thee  at 

once  ?  " 
He  merely  looked  with  his  large  eyes 

on  me. 

The  man  is  apathetic,  you  deduce  ? 
Contrariwise,  he  loves  both  old  and 

young, 

Able  and  weak,  affects  the  very  brutes 
And   birds  —  how   say  I  ?   flowers   of 

the  field  — 

As  a  wise  workman  recognizes  tools 
In  a  master's  workshop,  loving  what 

they  make. 
Thus   is  the  inan  as  harmless  as  a 

lamb  : 

Only  impatient,  let  him  do  his  best, 
At   ignorance   and   carelessness  and 

sin  — 
An    indignation   which    is   promptly 

curbed  : 
As   when   in  certain  travel   I  have 

feigned 

To  be  an  ignoramus  in  our  art 
According  to  some  preconceived  de- 
sign, 

And  happened  to  hear  the  land's  prac- 
titioners 

Steeped  in  conceit  sublimed  by  igno- 
rance, 

Prattle  fantastically  on  disease, 
Its  cause  and  cure  —  and  I  must  hold 

my  peace  ! 

Thou  wilt  object —    Why  have   I 

not  ere  this 
Sought  out  the  sage  himself,  the  Naz- 

arene 
Who  wrought  this  cure,  inquiring  at 

the  source, 


Conferring  with  the  frankness  that 

befits  ? 
Alas !    it   grieveth   me,   the   learned 

leech 

Perished  in  a  tumult  many  years  ago, 
Accused,  —  our  learning's  fate,  —  of 

wizardry, 

Rebellion,  to  the  setting  up  a  rule 
And  creed  prodigious  as  described  to 

me. 
His  death,  which  happened  when  the 

earthquake  fell 
(Prefiguring,  as  soon  appeared,  the 

loss 
To   occult  learning  in  our  lord  the 

sage 
Who    lived    there    in    the    pyramid 

alone), 
Was  wrought  by  the   mad  people  — 

that's  their  wont ! 
On  vain  recourse,  as  I  conjecture  it, 
To   his  tried  virtue,  for  miraculous 

help  — 
How  could  he  stop  the  earthquake  ? 

That's  their  way ! 

The  other  imputations  must  be  lies  : 
But  take  one,  though  I  loath  to  give 

it  thee, 
In  mere  respect  for  any  good  man's 

fame. 

(And  after  all,  our  patient  Lazarus 
Is  stark  mad  ;  should  we  count  on 

what  he  says  ? 
Perhaps  not :  though  in  writing  to  a 

leech 
'Tis  well  to  keep  back  nothing  of  a 

case.) 
This  man  so  cured  regards  the  curer, 

then, 
As  —  God  forgive  me  !  who  but  God 

himself, 

Creator  and  sustainer  of  the  world, 
That  came  and  dwelt  in  flesh  on  it 

a  while  ! 
—  'Sayeth  that  such  an  one  was  born 

and  lived, 
Taught,  healed  the  sick,  broke  bread 

at  his  own  house, 
Then  died,  with  Lazarus  by,  for  aught 

I  know, 
And  yet  was  .  .  .  what   I   said  nor 

choose  repeat, 
And  must  have  so  avouched  himself, 

in  fact, 

In  hearing  of  this  very  Lazarus 
Who  saith  — but  why  all  this  of  what 

he  saith  ? 
Why  write  of  trivial  matters,  things 

of  price 


114 


CALIBAN    UPON  SET E BOS. 


Calling  at  every  moment  for  remark  ? 
I  noticed  on  the  margin  of  a  pool 
Blue-flowering    borage,    the    Aleppo 

sort, 
Aboundeth,     very     nitrous.       It     is 

strange ! 

Thy  pardon  for  this  long  and  tedious 

case, 
"Which,  now  that  I  review  it,  needs 

must  seein 

Unduly  dwelt  on,  prolixly  set  forth  ! 
Nor   I    myself    discern    in    what    is 

writ 

Good  cause  for  the  peculiar  interest 
And  awe  indeed  this  man  has  touched 

me  with. 

Perhaps  the  journey's  end,  the  weari- 
ness 
Had  wrought  upon  me  first.    I  met 

him  thus  : 
I  crossed  a  ridge  of  short  sharp  broken 

hills 
Like  an  old  lion's  cheek  teeth.    Out 

there  came 
A  moon  made  like  a  face  with  certain 

spots 

Multiform,  manifold,  and  menacing  : 
Then  a  wind  rose  behind  me.    So  we 

met 

In  this  old  sleepy  town  at  unaware, 
The  man  and  I.    I  send  thee  what  is 

writ. 

Regard  it  as  a  chance,  a  matter  risked 
To  this  ambiguous  Syrian  :  he  may 

lose, 
Or  steal,  or  give  it  thee  with  equal 

good. 
Jerusalem's      repose      shall      make 

amends 
For  time  this  letter  wastes,  thy  time 

and  mine  ; 
Till  when,  once  more  thy  pardon  and 

farewell ! 

The  very  God  !  think,  Abib  ;  dost 
thou  think  ? 

So,  the  All-Great,  were  the  All-Loving 
too  — 

So,  through  the  thunder  comes  a  hu- 
man voice 

Saying,  "  O  heart  I  made,  a  heart  beats 
here  ! 

Face,  my  hands  fashioned,  see  it  in 
myself ! 

Thou  hast  no  power  nor  may'st  con- 
ceive of  mine  : 

But  love  I  gave  thee,  with  myself  to 
love, 


And  thou   must  love  me  who  have 

died  for  thee  !  " 
The  madman  saith  He  said  so  :  it  is 

strange. 


CALIBAN  UPON  SETEBOS; 

OR,   NATURAL   THEOLOGY   IN   THE 
ISLAND. 

"Thou  thoughtest  that  I  was  altogether 
such  a  one  as  thyself." 

['"WILL  sprawl,  now  that  the  heat  of 
day  is  best, 

Flat  on  his  belly  in  the  pit's  much 
mire, 

With  elbows  wide,  fists  clinched  to 
prop  his  chin. 

And,  while  he  kicks  both  feet  in  the 
cool  slush, 

And  feels  about  his  spine  small  eft- 
things  course, 

Run  in  and  out  each  arm,  and  make 
him  laugh  : 

And  while  above  his  head  a  pompion- 
plant, 

Coating  the  cave-top  as  a  brow  its 
eye, 

Creeps  down  to  touch  and  tickle  hair 
and  beard, 

And  now  a  flower  drops  with  a  bee 
inside, 

And  now  a  fruit  to  snap  at,  catch  and 
crunch,  — 

He  looks  out  o'er  yon  sea  which  sun- 
beams cross 

And  recross  till  they  weave  a  spider- 
web 

(Meshes  of  fire,  some  great  fish  breaks 
at  times), 

And  talks  to  his  own  self,  howe'er  he 
please, 

Touching  that  other,  whom  his  daui 
called  God. 

Because  to  talk  about  Him,  vexes 
—  ha, 

Could  He  but  know  !  and  time  to  vex 
is  now, 

When  talk  is  safer  than  in  winter- 
time. 

Moreover  Prosper  and  Miranda  sleep 

In  confidence  he  drudges  at  their 
task  : 


CALIBAN    UPON   SETEBOS 


115 


And  it  is  good  to  cheat  the  pair,  and 

gibe, 
Letting  the  rank  tongue  blossom  into 

speech.] 

Setebos,  Setebos,  and  Setebos  ! 
'Thinketh,  He  dvvelleth  i'  the  cold  o' 
the  moon. 

'Thinketh  He  made  it,  with  the  sun  to 

match, 
But  not  the  stars  ;   the  stars    came 

otherwise  ; 
Only  made  clouds,  winds,  meteors, 

such  as  that : 
Also  this  isle,  what  lives  and  grows 

thereon, 
And   snaky   sea  which  rounds  and 

ends  the  same. 

'Thinketh,   it  came   of   being  ill  at 

ease  : 
He  hated  that  He  cannot  change  His 

cold, 
Nor  cure  its  ache.    'Hath  spied  an  icy 

fish 
That  longed  to  'scape  the  rock-stream 

where  she  lived, 

And  thaw  herself  within  the  luke- 
warm brine 
O'  the  lazy  sea,  her  stream  thrusts  far 

amid, 
A    crystal    spike    'twixt    two    warm 

walls  of  wave  ; 

Only,  she  ever  sickened,  found  re- 
pulse 
At  the  other  kind  of  water,  not  her 

life 
(Green-dense  and  dim-delicious,  bred 

o'  the  sun), 
Flounced  back  from  bliss  she  was  not 

born  to  breathe, 
And  in  her  old   bounds  buried  her 

despair, 
Hating  and  loving  warmth  alike  ;  so 

He. 

'Thinketh,  He  made  thereat  the  sun, 
this  isle, 

Trees  and  the  fowls  here,  beast  and 
creeping  thing. 

Yon  otter,  sleek-wet,  black,  lithe  as  a 
leech  ; 

Yon  auk,  one  fire-eye  in  a  ball  of 
foam, 

That  floats  and  feeds ;  a  certain  bad- 
ger brown, 

He  hath  watched  hunt  with  that 
slant  white-wedge  eye 


By  moonlight  ;  and  the  pie  with  the 

long  tongue 
That  pricks  deep  into  oakwarts  for  a 

worm, 
And  says  a  plain  word  when  she  finds 

her  prize, 
But  will  not  eat  the  ants  ;  the  ants 

themselves 
That  build  a  wall  of  seeds  and  settled 

stalks 
About  their  hole — He  made  all  these 

and  more, 
Made  all  we  see,  and  us,  in  spite: 

how  else  ? 
He  could  not,  Himself,  make  a  second 

self 
To  be  His  mate  :  as  well  have  made 

Himself : 
He  would  not  make  what  He  mislikes 

or  slights, 
An  eyesore  to  Him,  or  not  worth  His 

pains  ; 

But  did,  in  envy,  listlessness,  or  sport, 
Make  what  Himself  would  fain,  in  a 

manner,  be  — 
Weaker  in  most  points,  stronger  in  a 

few, 
Worthy,  and  yet  mere  playthings  all 

the  while, 
Things  He  admires  and  mocks  too,  — 

that  is  it. 
Because,  so  brave,  so  better  though 

they  be, 

It  nothing  skills  if  He  begin  to  plague. 
Look  now,  I  melt  a  gourd-fruit  into 

mash, 
Add  honeycomb   and  pods,    I  have 

perceived, 
Which  bite  like  finches  when  they 

bill  and  kiss,  — 
Then,    when    froth    rises    bladdery, 

drink  up  all, 
Quick,  quick,  till  maggots   scamper 

through  my  brain  ; 
Last,  throw  me  on  my  back  i'  the 

seeded  thyme, 
And  wanton,  wishing  I  were  born  a 

bird. 

Put  case,  unable  to  be  what  I  wish, 
I  yet  could  make  a  live  bird  out  of 

clay: 
Would  not  I  take  clay,  pinch   my 

Caliban 
Able  to  fly  ?  —  for,  there,  see,  he  hath 

wings, 
And  great  comb  like  the  hoopoe's  to 

admire, 

And  there,  a  sting  to  do  hi»  foes  of- 
fence, 


116 


CALIBAN    UPON  SETEBOS. 


There,  and  I  will  that  he  begin  to 

live, 
Fly  to  yon  rock-top,  nip  me  off  the 

horns 
Of    grigs    high    up    that    make    the 

merry  din 
Saucy   through   their  veined   wings, 

and  mind  me  not. 
In   which   feat,  if  his   leg  snapped, 

brittle  clay, 
And    he    lay    stupid-like,  —  why,    I 

should  laugh  ; 
And  if  he,  spying  me,  should  fall  to 

weep, 
Beseech  me  to  be   good,   repair   his 

wrong, 
Bid  his  poor  leg  smart  less  or  grow 

again, — 
Well,  as  the  chance  were,  this  might 

take  or  else 
Not  take  my  fancy  :  I  might  hear  his 

cry, 
And  give  the  manikin  three  legs  for 

one, 
Or  pluck  the  other  off,  leave  him  like 

an  egg, 
And  lessoned  he  was  mine  and  merely 

clay. 
Were  this  no  pleasure,  lying  in  the 

thyme, 

Drinking  the  mash,  with  brain  be- 
come alive, 
Making  and  marring  clay   at  will  ? 

So  He. 

'Thinketh,  such  shows  nor  right  nor 

wrong  in  Him, 
Nor  kind,  nor  cruel :  He  is  strong  and 

Lord. 

'Am  strong  myself  compared  to  yon- 
der crabs 
That  march  now  from  the  mountain 

to  the  sea  ; 
'Let    twenty    pass,    and    stone    the 

twenty-first, 
Loving  not,  hating  not,  just  choosing 

so. 
'Say,  the  first  straggler  that  boasts 

purple  spots 
Shall  join  the  file,  one  pincer  twisted 

off  ; 
'Say,  This  bruised  fellow  shall  receive 

a  worm, 
And  two  worms  he  whose  nippers 

end  in  red 
As  it  likes  me  each  time,  I  do  :  so  He. 

Well  then,  'supposeth  He  is  good  i' 
the  main, 


Placable  if  His  mind  and  ways  were 

guessed, 
But  rougher  than  His  handiwork,  be 

sure  ! 
Oh,  He  hath  made   things  worthier 

than  Himself, 
And   envieth  that,  so  helped,  such 

things  do  more 
Than  He  who  made  them !     What 

consoles  but  this  ? 
That  they,  unless  through  Him,  do 

naught  at  all, 
And  must  submit :  what  other  use  in 

things  ? 

'Hath  cut  a  pipe  of  pithless  elder- 
joint 
That,  blown  through,  gives  exact  the 

scream  o'  the  jay 
When  from  her  wing  you  twitch  the 

feathers  blue  : 
Sound  this,  and  little  birds  that  hate 

the  jay 
Flock  within  stone's  throw,  glad  their 

foe  is  hurt : 
Put  case  such  pipe  could  prattle  and 

boast  forsooth 
"  I  catch  the  birds,  I  am  the  crafty 

thing, 
I   make  the  cry  my  maker   cannot 

make 
With  his  great  round  mouth  ;  he  must 

blow  through  mine  !  " 
Would  not  I  smash  it  with  my  foot  ? 

So  He. 

But  wherefore  rough,  why  cold  and 

ill  at  ease  ? 
Aba,  that  is  a  question !     Ask,  for 

that, 
What  knows,  —  the  something  over 

Setebos 
That  made  Him,  or  He,  may  be,  found 

and  fought, 

Worsted,  drove  off  and  did  to  noth- 
ing, perchance. 
There  may  be  something  quiet  o'er 

His  head, 
Out  of  His  reach,  that  feels  nor  joy 

nor  grief, 
Since  both  derive  from  weakness  in 

some  way. 
I  joy  because  the  quails  come  ;  would 

not  joy 
Could  I  bring  quails  here  when  I  have 

a  mind  : 
This  Quiet,  all    it  hath  a  mind  to, 

doth. 
'Esteemeth  stars  the  outposts  of  its 

couch, 


CALIBAN    UPON   SETEBOS. 


117 


But  never  spends  much  thought  nor 

care  that  way. 
It  may  look  up,  work  up,  —  the  worse 

for  those 
It  works  on  !     'Careth  but  for  Sete- 

bos 

The  many-handed  as  a  cuttle-fish, 
Who,  making  Himself  feared  through 

what  He  does, 

Looks  up,  first,  and  perceives  he  can- 
not soar 

To  what  is  quiet  and  hath  happy  lift*  ; 
Next  looks  down  here,  and  out  of 

very  spite 
Makes  this  a  bauble-world  to  ape  yon 

real, 
These  good  things  to  match  those,  as 

hips  do  grapes. 
'Tis  solace  making  baubles,  ay,  and 

sport. 
Himself  peeped  late,  eyed  Prosper  at 

his  books 
Careless  and  lofty,  lord  now  of  the 

isle  : 
Vexed,    'stitched   a   book   of   broad 

leaves,  arrow-shaped, 
Wrote  thereon,  he  knows  what,  pro- 
digious words  ; 
Has  peeled  a  wand  and  called  it  by  a 

name  ; 
Weareth  at  whiles  for  an  enchanter's 

robe 

The  eyed  skin  of  a  supple  ocelot  ; 
And    hath    an    ounce    sleeker    than 

youngling  mole, 
A  fc  ur-legged  serpent  he  makes  cower 

and  couch, 
Now  snarl,  now  hold  its  breath  and 

mind  his  eye, 
And  saith  she  is   Miranda  and  my 

wife  ; 
'Keeps  for  his  Ariel  a  tall  pouch-bill 

crane 
He  bids  go  wade  for  fish  and  straight 

disgorge  ; 
Also  a  sea-beast,  lumpish,  which  he 

snared, 
Blinded   the   eyes   of,    and   brought 

somewhat  tame, 
And  split  its  toe-webs,  and  now  pens 

the  drudge 
In  a  hole  o'  the  rock,  and  calls  him 

Caliban  ; 
A  bitter  heart  that  bides  its  time  and 

bites. 
'Plays  thus   at  being   Prosper  in   a 

way, 
Taketh  his  mirth  with  make-believes  : 

so  He. 


His  dam  held  that  the  Quiet  made  all 

things 
Which  Setebos  vexed  only :    'holds 

not  so. 

Who  made  them  weak,  meant  weak- 
ness He  might  vex. 
Had  He  meant  other,  while  His  hand 

was  in, 
Why  not  make  horny  eyes  no  thorn 

could  prick, 
Or  plate  my  scalp  with  bone  against 

the  snow, 
Or  overscale  my  flesh  'neath  joint  and 

joint, 
Like  an  ore's  armor  ?    Ay,  —  so  spoil 

His  sport ! 
He  is  the  One  now  :  only  He  doth  all. 

'Saith,  He  may  like,  perchance,  what 

profits  Him. 
Ay,  himself   loves   what   does    him 

good  ;  but  why  ? 
'Gets  good  no  otherwise.  This  blinded 

beast 
Loves  whoso  places  flesh-meat  on  his 

nose, 
But,  had  he    eyes,  would  want   no 

help,  would  hate 
Or  love,  just  as  it  liked  him  :  He  hath 

eyes. 

Also  it  pleaseth  Setebos  to  work, 
Use  all  His  hands,  and  exercise  much 

craft, 
By  no  means,  for  the  love  of  what  is 

worked'. 
'Tasteth,  himself,  no  finer  good  i'  the 

world 

When  all  goes  right,  in  this  safe  sum- 
mer-time, 
And  he  wants  little,  hungers,  aches 

not  much, 
Than  trying  what  to  do  with  wit  and 

strength. 
'Falls  to  make  something  :  'piled  yon 

pile  of  turfs, 
And  squared  and  stuck  there  squares 

of  soft  white  chalk, 
And,  with  a  fish-tooth,  scratched  a 

moon  on  each, 
And  set  up  endwise  certain  spikes  of 

tree, 
And  crowned  the  whole  with  a  sloth's 

skull  a-top, 
Found  dead  i'   the  woods,  too  hard 

for  one  to  kill. 
No  use  at  all  i'  the  work,  for  work's 

sole  sake  ; 
'Shall  some  day  knock  it  down  again  : 

so  He. 


118 


CALIBAN    UPON   SET E BOS. 


'Saith  He  is  terrible  :  watch  His  feats 

in  proof ! 
One    hurricane  will  spoil    six    good 

months'  hope. 
He  hath  a  spite  against  me,  that  I 

know, 
Just  as  He  favors  Prosper,  who  knows 

why? 

So  it  is,  all  the  same,  as  well  I  find. 
'Wove  wattles  half  the  winter,  fenced 

them  firm 

With  stone  and  stake  to  stop  she- 
tortoises 
Crawling  to  lay  their  eggs  here  :  well, 

one  wave, 
Feeling  the  foot    of    Him    upon    its 

neck, 
Gaped  as  a  snake  does,  lolled  out  its 

large  tongue, 
And  licked  the  whole  labor  flat :  so 

much  for  spite. 
'Saw  a  ball  flame  down  late  (yonder 

it  lies) 
"Where,  half  an  hour  before,  I  slept 

i'  the  shade  : 
Often  they  scatter  sparkles  :  there  is 

force ! 
'Dug  up  a  newt  He  may  have  envied 

once 
And  turned  to  stone,  shut  up  inside  a 

stone 
Please  Him  and  hinder  this  ?  —  What 

Prosper  does  ? 
Aha,  if  he  would  tell  me  how !    Not 

He! 
There  is  the  sport  :  discover  how  or 

die! 
All  need  not  die,  for  of  the  things  o' 

the  isle 
Some  flee  afar,  some  dive,  some  run 

up  trees  ; 
Those    at    His    mercy,  —  why,    they 

please  Him  most 
When  .  .  .  when  .  .  .  well,  never  try 

the  same  way  twice  ! 
Repeat  what  act  has  pleased,  He  may 

grow  wroth. 
"Sou  must  not  know  His  ways,  and 

play  Him  off, 

Sure  of  the  issue.   'Doth  the  like  him- 
self: 
'Spareth  a  squirrel  that   it   nothing 

fears 
But  steals  the  nut  from  underneath 

my  thumb, 
And  when  I  threat,  bites  stoutly  in 

defence  : 

'Spareth  an  urchin  that  contrariwise, 
Curls  up  into  a  ball,  pretending  death 


For  fright  at  my  approach  :  the  two 

ways  please. 
But  what  would  move  my  choler  more 

than  this, 
That  either  creature  counted  on  its 

life 
To-morrow  and  next  day  and  all  days 

to  come, 
Saying  forsooth  in  the  inmost  of  its 

heart, 

"  Because  he  did  so  yesterday  with  me, 
And    otherwise    with    such    another 

brute, 

So  must  he  do    henceforth  and  al- 
ways."—   Ay? 
'Would  teach  the  reasoning    couple 

what  "  must "  means  : 
'Doth  as  he  likes,  or  wherefore  Lord  ? 

So  He. 

'Conceiveth  all  things  will  continue 

thus, 
And  w  5  shall  have  to  live  in  fear  of 

Him 
So    long    as    He    lives,    keeps    His 

strength :  no  change, 
If  He  have  done  His  best,  make  no 

new  world 
To   please  Him  jr.ore,  so    leave   off 

watching  this,  — 
If  He  surprise  not  even  the  Quiet's 

self 
Some    strange    day,  —  or,    suppose, 

grow  into  it 
As  grubs  grow  butterflies  :  else,  here 

are  we, 
And  there  is  He,  and  nowhere  help  at 

all. 

'Believeth  with  the  life,  the  pain  shall 

stop. 
His  dam  held   different,   that  after 

death 
He  both  plagued  enemies  and  feasted 

friends  : 
Idly  !     He  doth  His  worst  in  this  our 

life, 
Giving  just  respite  lest  we  die  through 

pain, 
Saving  last   pain   for   worst,  —  with 

which,  an  end. 
Meanwhile,  the  best  way  to  escape 

His  ire 
Is,  not  to  seem  too  h^ppy.     'Sees 

himself, 
Yonder  two  flies;  wi"h  purple  films 

and  pink, 
Bask  on  the  pouipion~bell  abo^e  :  kill- 

both. 


SAUL. 


119 


-"Sees  two  black  painful  beetles  roll 

their  ball 
On  head  and  tail  as  if  to  save  their 

Jives  : 
Moves   them   the   stick   away   they 

strive  to  clear. 

Even  so,  'would  have  Him  miscon- 
ceive, suppose 
This  Caliban  strives  hard  and  ails  no 

less, 
And  always,  above  all  else,  envies 

Him; 
"Wherefore  he  mainly  dances  on  dark 

nights, 
Moans  in  the  sun,  gets  under  holes  to 

laugh, 
And    never   speaks    his    mind    save 

housed  as  now : 
Outside,  'groans,  curses.  If  He  caught 

me  here, 
O'erheard    this    speech,  and    asked, 

"  What  chucklest  at  ?  " 
'Would,  to  appease  Him,  cut  a  finger 

off, 
Or  of  my  three  kid  yearlings  burn 

the  best, 

Or  let  the  toothsome  apples  rot  on  tree, 
Or  push  rny  tame  beast  for  the  ore  to 

taste  : 
While  myself  lit  a  fire,  and  made  a 

song 

And  sung  it,  "  What  I  hate,  be  conse- 
crate 

To  celebrate  Thee  and  Thy  state,  no  mate 
For   Thee ;  what  see  for  envy  in  poor 

me?" 


Hoping  the  while,  since  evils  some- 
times mend, 

Warts  rub  away  and  sores  are  cured 
with  slime, 

That  some  strange  day,  will  either 
the  Quiet  catch 

And  conquer  Setebos,  or  likelier 
He 

Decrepit  may  doze,  doze,  as  good  as 
die. 


[What,  what?     A   curtain  o'er  the 

world  at  once  ! 
Crickets  stop  hissing ;  not  a  bird  — 

or,  yes, 
There  scuds  His  raven  that  hath  told 

Him  all ! 
It   was    fool's   play,  this  prattling ! 

Ha !    The  wind 
Shoulders  the  pillared  dust,  death's 

house  o'  the  move, 
And  fast  invading  fires  begin  !  White 

blaze  — 
A    tree's    head    snaps  —  and   there, 

there,  there,  there,  there, 
His  thunder  follows !    Fool  to  gibe 

at  Him  ! 

Lo  !     'Lieth  flat  and  loveth  Setebos  ! 
'Maketh  his  teeth  meet  through  his 

upper  lip. 
Will  let  those  quails  fly,  will  not  eat 

this  month 
One  little  mess  of  whelks,  so  he  may 

'scape  !] 


SAUL. 


SAID  Abner,  "  At  last  thou  art  come  !    Ere  I  tell,  ere  thpu  speak, 

Kiss  my  cheek,  wish  me  well !  "     Then  I  wished  it,  and  did  kiss  hi» 

cheek. 

And  he,  "  Since  the  King,  O  my  friend  !  for  thy  countenance  sent, 
Neither  drunken  nor  eaten  have  we  ;  nor  until  from  his  tent 
Thou  return  with  the  joyful  assurance  the  King  liveth  yet, 
Shall  our  lip  with  the  honey  be  bright,  with  the  water  be  wet. 
For  out  of  the  black  mid-tent's  silence,  a  space  of  three  days, 
Not  a  sound  hath  escaped  to  thy  servants,  of  prayer  nor  of  praise, 
To  betoken  that  Saul  and  the  Spirit  have  ended  their  strife, 
And  that,  faint  in  his  triumph,  the  monarch  sinks  back  upon  lifs. 


120  SAUL. 


"  Yet  now  my  heart  leaps,  O  beloved  !    God's  child  with  his  dew 
On  thy  gracious  gold  hair,  and  those  lilies  still  living  and  blue 
Just  broken  to  twine  round  thy  harp-strings,  as  if  no  wild  heat 
Were  now  raging  to  torture  the  desert !  " 

in. 

Then  I,  as  was  meet, 

Knelt  down  to  the  God  of  my  fathers,  and  rose  on  my  feet, 
And  ran  o'er  the  sand  burnt  to  powder.    The  tent  was  unlooped  ; 
1  pulled  up  the  spear  that  obstructed,  and  under  I  stooped  ; 
Hands  and  knees  on  the  slippery  grass-patch,  all  withered  and  gone, 
That  extends  to  the  second  enclosure,  I  groped  my  way  on 
Till  I  felt  where  the  foldskirts  fly  open.    Then  once  more  I  prayed, 
And  opened  the  foldskirts  and  entered,  and  was  not  afraid 
But  spoke,  "  Here  is  David,  thy  servant !  "    And  no  voice  replied. 
At  the  first  I  saw  naught  but  the  blackness  ;  but  soon  I  descried 
A  something  more  black  than  the  blackness  —  the  vast,  the  upright 
Main  prop  which  sustains  the  pavilion  :  and  slow  into  sight 
Grew  a  figure  against  it,  gigantic  and  blackest  of  all. 
Then  a  sunbeam,  that  burst  through  the  tent-roof,  showed  Saul. 

IV. 

He  stood  as  erect  as  that  tent-prop,  both  arms  stretched  out  wide 

On  the  great  cross-support  in  the  centre,  that  goes  to  each  side  ; 

He  relaxed  not  a  muscle,  but  hung  there  as,  caught  in  his  pangs 

And  waiting  his  change,  the  king  serpent  all  heavily  hangs, 

Far  away  from  his  kind,  in  the  pine,  till  deliverance  come 

With  the  spring-time,  —  so  agonized  Saul,  drear  and  stark,  blind  and  dumb. 

v. 

Then  I  tuned  my  harp,  —  took  off  the  lilies  we  twine  round  its  chords 
Lest  they  snap  'neath  the  stress  of  the  noontide  —  those  sunbeams  like 

swords  ! 

And  I  first  played  the  tune  all  our  sheep  know,  as,  one  after  one, 
So  docile  they  come  to  the  pen-door  till  folding  be  done. 
They  are  white,  and  untorn  by  the  bushes,  for  lo,  they  have  fed 
Where  the  long  grasses  stifle  the  water  within  the  stream's  bed  ; 
And  now  one  after  one  seeks  its  lodging,  as  star  follows  star 
Into  eve  and  the  blue  far  above  us,  —  so  blue  and  so  far ! 


—  Then  the  tupe,  for  which  quails  on  the  cornland  will  each  leave  his  mate 

To  fly  after  the  player  ;  then,  what  makes  the  crickets  elate 

Till  for  boldness  they  fight  one  another  :  and  then,  what  has  weight 

To  set  the  quick  jerboa  a-musing  outside  his  sand  house  — 

There  are  none  such  as  -he  for  a  wonder,  half  bird  and  half  mouse  ! 

God  made  all  the  creatures  and  gave  them  our  love  and  our  fear, 

To  give  sign,  we  and  they  are  bis  children,  one  family  here. 


Then  I  played  the  help-tune  of  our  reapers,  their  wine-song,  when  hand 
Grasps  at  hand,  eye  lights  eye  in  good  friendship,  and  great  hearts  expand 
And  grow  one  in  the  sense  of  this  world's  life.  —    And  then,  the  last  song 
When  the  dead  man  is  praised  on  his  journey  —  "  Bear,  bear  him  along 
With  his  few  faults  shut  up  like  dead  flowerets  !     Are  balm  seeds  not  here 
To  console  ns  ?    The  land  has  none  left  such  as  he  on  the  bier. 


C-4- 


SAUL. 


Oh,  would  we  might  keep  thee,  my  brother  !  "  -  -    And  then,  the  glad  chant 
Of  the  marriage,  — first  go  the  young  maidens,  next,  she  whom  we  vaunt 
As  the  beauty,  the  pride  of  our  dwelling.  —    And  then,  the  great  march 
Wherein  man  runs  to  man  to  assist  him  and  buttress  an  arch 
Naught  can  break  ;  who  shall  harm  them,  our  friends? —    Then,  the  chorus 

intoned 

As  the  Levites  go  up  to  the  altar  in  glory  enthroned. 
But  I  stopped  here  :  for  here  in  the  darkness  Saul  groaned. 

VIII. 

And  I  paused,  held  my  breath  in  such  silence,  and  listened  apart ; 
And  the  tent  shook,  for  mighty  Saul  shuddered  :  and  sparkles  'gan  dart 
From  the  jewels  that  woke  in  his  turban  at  once  with  a  start 
All  its  lordly  male-sapphires,  and  rubies  courageous  at  heart. 
So  the  head  :  but  the  body  still  moved  not,  still  hung  there  erect. 
And  I  bent  once  again  to  my  playing,  pursued  it  unchecked, 
As  I  sang,  — 

IX. 

"  Oh,  our  manhood 's  prime  vigor  !    No  spirit  feels  waste, 
Not  a  muscle  is  stopped  in  its  playing  nor  sinew  unbraced. 
Oh,  the  wild  joys  of  living  !  the  leaping  from  rock  up  to  rock, 
The  strong  rending  of  boughs  from  the  fir-tree,  the  cool  silver  shock 
Of  the  plunge  in  a  pool's  living  water,  the  hunt  of  the  bear, 
And  the  sultriness  showing  the  lion  is  couched  in  his  lair. 
And  the  meal,  the  rich  dates  yellowed  over  with  gold  dust  divine, 
And  the  locust-flesh  steeped  in  the  pitcher,  the  full  draught  of  wine, 
And  the  sleep  in  the  dried  river-channel  where  bulrushes  tell 
That  the  water  was  wont  to  go  warbling  so  softly  and  well. 
How  good  is  man's  life,  the  mere  living  !  how  fit  to  employ 
All  the  heart  and  the  soul  and  the  senses  forever  in  joy  ! 
Hast  thou  loved  the  white  locks  of  thy  father,  whose  sword  thou  didst  guard 
When  he  trusted  thee  forth  with  the  armies,  for  glorious  reward  ? 
Didst  thou  see  the  thin  hands  of  thy  mother,  held  up  as  men  sung 
The  low  song  of  the  nearly  departed,  and  hear  her  faint  tongue 
Joining  in  while  it  could  to  the  witness,  '  Let  one  more  attest, 
I  have  lived,  seen  God's  hand  through  a  lifetime,  and  all  was  for  best  1 ' 
Then  they  sung  through  their  tears  in  strong  triumph,  not  much,  but  tht 

rest. 

And  thy  brothers,  the  help  and  the  contest,  the  working  whence  grew 
Such  result  as,  from  seething  grape-bundles,  the  spirit  strained  true  : 
And  the  friends  of  thy  boyhood  —  that  boyhood  of  wonder  and  hope, 
Present  promise  and  wealth  of  the  future  beyond  the  eye's  scope,  — 
Till  lo,  thou  art  grown  to  a  monarch  ;  a  people  is  thine  ; 
And  all  gifts,  which  the  world  offers  singly,  on  one  head  combine  ! 
On  one  head,  all  the  beauty  and  strength,  love  and  rage  (like  the  throe 
That,  a-work  in  the  rock,  helps  its  labor  and  lets  the  gold  go) 
High  ambition  and  deeds  which  surpass  it,  fame  crowning  them,  — all 
Brought  to  blaze  on  the  head  of  one  creature  —  King  Saul '  " 

x. 

And  lo,  with  that  leap  of  my  spirit,  — heart,  hand,  harp,  and  voice, 
Each  lifting  Saul's  name  out  of  sorrow,  each  bidding  rejoice 
Saul's  fame  in  the  light  it  was  made  for  —  as  when,  dare  I  say, 
The  Lord's  army,  in  rapture  of  service,  strains  through  its  array, 
And  upsoareth  the  cherubim-chariot  —  "  Saul  !  "  cried  I,  and  stopped, 
And  waited  the  thing  that  should  follow.    Then  Saul,  who  hung  propped 
By  the  tent's  cross-support  in  the  centre,  was  struck  by  his  name. 
Have  ye  seen  when  Spring's  arrowy  summons  goes  right  to  the  aim, 


122  SAUL. 


And  some  mountain,  the  last  to  withstand  her,  that  held  (he  alone, 

While  the  vale  laughed  in  freedom  and  flowers)  on  a  broad  bust  of  stone 

A  year's  snow  bound  about  for  a  breastplate,  —  leaves  grasp  of  the  sheet  ? 

Fold  on  fold  all  at  once  it  crowds  thunderously  down  to  his  feet, 

And  there  fronts  you,  stark,  black,  but  alive  yet,  your  mountain  of  old, 

With  his  rents,  the  successive  bequeathings  of  ages  untold  — 

Yea,  each  harm  got  in  fighting  your  battles,  each  furrow  and  scar 

Of  his  head  thrust  'twixt  you  and  the  tempest  —  all  hail,  there  they  are ! 

—  Now  again  to  be  softened  with  verdure,  again  hold  the  nest 

Of  the  dove,  tempt  the  goat  and  its  young  to  the  green  on  his  crest 

For  their  food  in  the  ardors  of  summer.    One  long  shudder  thrilled 

All  the  tent  till  the  very  air  tingled,  then  sank  and  was  stilled 

At  the  King's  self  left  standing  before  me,  released  and  aware. 

\Vhat  was  gone,  what  remained  ?    All  to  traverse  'txvixt  hope  and  despair. 

Death  was  past,  life  not  come  :  so  he  waited.    A  while  his  right  hand 

Held  the  brow,  helped  the  eyes,  left  too  vacant,  forthwith  to  remand 

To  their  place  what  new  objects  should  enter  :  'twas  Saul  as  before. 

I  looked  up  and  dared  gaze  at  those  eyes,  nor  was  hurt  any  more 

Than  by  slow  pallid  sunsets  in  autumn,  ye  watch  from  the  shore, 

At  their  sad  level  gaze  o'er  the  ocean  —  a  sun's  slow  decline 

Over  hills  which,  resolved  in  stern  silence,  o'erlap  and  intwine 

Base  with  base  to  knit  strength  more  intensely  :  so,  arm  folded  arm 

O'er  the  chest  whose  slow  heavings  subsided. 

XI. 

What  spell  or  what  charm 

(For,  a  while  there  was  trouble  within  me),  what  next  should  I  urge 
To  sustain  him  where  song  had  restored  him  ?  —    Song  filled  to  the  verge 
His  cup  with  the  wine  of  this  life,  pressing  all  that  it  yields 
Of  mere  fruitage,  the  strength  and  the  beauty  :  beyond,  on  what  fields, 
Glean  a  vintage  more  potent  and  perfect  to  brighten  the  eye 
And  bring  blood  to  the  lip,  and  commend  them  the  cup  they  put  by  ? 
He  saith,  "  It  is  good  ;  "  still  he  drinks  not :  he  lets  me  praise  life, 
Gives  assent,  yet  would  die  for  his  own  part. 

XII. 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 

Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture,  when  round  me  the  sheep 
Fed  in  silence  —  above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled  slow  as  in  sleep  ; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the  world  that  might  lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip  'twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky. 
And  I  laughed  —  "  Since  my  days  are  ordained  to  be  passed  with  my  flocks; 
Let  me  people  at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the  plains  and  the  rocks, 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and  image  the  show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions  I  hardly  shall  know  ! 
Schemes  of  life,  its  best  rules  and  right  uses,  the  courage  that  gains, 
And  the  prudence  that  keeps  what  men  strive  for."    And   now  these  old 

trains 

Of  vague  thought  came  again  ;  I  grew  surer  ;  so,  once  more  the  string 
Of  my  harp  made  response  to  my  spirit,  as  thus  — 

xm. 

"Yea,  my  King," 

I  began  —  "  thou  dost  well  in  rejecting  mere  comforts  that  spring 
From  the  mere  mortal  life  held  in  common  by  man  and  by  brute  : 
In  our  flesh  grows  the  branch  of  this  life,  in  our  soul  it  bears  fruit. 
Thou  hast  marked  the  slow  rise  of  the  tree,  —how  its  stem  trembled  first 
Till  it  passed  the  kid's  lip,  the  stag's  antler  ;  then  safely  outburst 


SAUL.  123 


The  fan-branches  all  round  ;  and  thou  mindest  when  these  too,  in  turn 
Broke  a-bloom  and  the  palm-tree  seemed  perfect :  yet  more  was  to  learn, 
E'en  the  good  that  comes  in  with  the  palm-fruit.    Our  dates  shall  we  slight, 
When  their  juice  brings  a  cure  for  all  sorrow  ?  or  care  for  the  plight 
Of  the  palm's  self  whose  slow  growth  produced  them  ?    Not  so  !  stem  and 

branch 

Shall  decay,  nor  be  known  in  their  place,  while  the  palm-wine  shall  stanch 
Every  wound  of  man's  spirit  in  winter.    I  pour  thee  such  wine. 
Leave  the  flesh  to  the  fate  it  was  fit  for  !  the  spirit  be  thine  ! 
By  the  spirit,  when  age  shall  o'ercome  thee,  thou  still  shalt  enjoy 
More  indeed,  than  at  first  when,  inconscious,  the  life  of  a  boy. 
Crush  that  life,  and  behold  its  wine  running  !    Each  deed  thou  hast  done 
Dies,  revives,  goes  to  work  in  the  world  :  until  e'en  as  the  sun 
Looking  down  on  the  earth,  though  clouds  spoil  him,  though  tempests  efface, 
Can  find  nothing  his  own  deed  produced  not,  must  everywhere  trace 
The  results  of  his  past  summer-prime,  —  so,  each  ray  of  thy  will, 
Every  flash  of  thy  passion  and  prowess,  long  over,  shall  thrill 
Thy  whole  people,  the  countless,  with  ardor,  till  they  too  give  forth 
A  like  cheer  to  their  sons  :  who  in  turn,  fill  the  South  and  the  North 
With  the  radiance  thy  deed  was  the  germ  of.     Carouse  in  the  past ! 
But  the  license  of  age  has  its  limit :  thou  diest  at  last. 
As  the  lion  when  age  dims  his  eyeball,  the  rose  at  her  height, 
So  with  man  —  so  his  power  and  his  beauty  forever  take  flight. 
No  !    Again  a  long  draught  of  my  soul-wine  !    Look  forth  o'er  the  years  ! 
Thou  hast  done  now  with  eyes  for  the  actual ;  begin  with  the  seer's  ! 
Is  Saul  dead  ?    In  the  depth  of  the  vale  make  his  tomb  —  bid  arise 
A  gray  mountain  of  marble  heaped  four-square,  till,  built  to  the  skies, 
Let  it  mark  where  the  great  First  King  slumbers  :  whose  fame  would  ye 

know  ? 

Up  above  see  the  rock's  naked  face,  where  the.  record  shall  go 
In  great  characters  cut  by  the  scribe,  —  Such  was  Saul,  so  he  did; 
With  the  sages  directing  the  work,  by  the  populace  chid, — 
For  not  half,  they'll  affirm,  is  comprised  there  !    Which  fault  to  amend, 
In  the  grove  with  his  kind  grows  the  cedar,  whereon  they  shall  spend 
(See,  in  tablets  'tis  level  before  them)  their  praise,  and  record 
With  the  gold  of  the  graver,  Saul's  story,  —  the  statesman's  great  word 
Side  by  side  with  the  poet's  sweet  comment.    The  river's  a-wave 
With  smooth  paper-reeds  grazing  each  other  when  prophet-winds  rave  : 
So  the  pen  gives  unborn  generations  their  due  and  their  part 
In  thy  being !    Then,  first  of  the  mighty,  thank  God  that  thou  art !  " 


And  behold  while  I  sang  .  .  .  but  O  Thou  who  didst  grant  me,  that  day, 

And,  before  :t,  not  seldom  hast  granted  thy  help  to  essay. 

Carry  on  aud  complete  an  adventure,  —  my  shield  and  my  sword 

In  that  act  where  my  soul  was  thy  servant,  thy  word  was  my  word,  — 

Still  be  with  me,  who  then  at  the  summit  of  human  endeavor 

And  scaling  the  highest,  man's  thought  could,  gazed  hopeless  as  ever 

On  the  new  stretch  of  heaven  above  me  —  till,  mighty  to  save, 

Just  one  lift  of  thy  hand  cleared  that  distance  —  God's  throne  from  man's 

grave  ! 

Let  me  tell  out  my  tale  to  its  ending  —  my  voice  to  my  heart 
Which  can  scarce  dare  believe  in  what  marvels  last  night  I  took  part, 
As  this  morning  I  gather  the  fragments,  alone  with  my  sheep  ! 
And  still  fear  lest  the  terrible  glory  evanish  like  sleep, 
For  I  wake  in  the  gray  dewy  covert,  while  Hebron  upheaves 
The  dawn  struggling  with  night  on  his  shoulder,  and  Kidron  retrieves 
Slow  the  damage  of  yesterday's  sunshine. 


124 


SAUL. 


I  say  then,  —  my  song 

While  I  sang  thus,  assuring  the  monarch,  and,  ever  more  strong, 
Made  a  proffer  of  good  to  console  him  —  he  slowly  resumed 
His  old  motions  and  habitudes  kingly.    The  right  hand  replumed 
His  black  locks  to  their  wonted  composure,  adjusted  the  swathes 
Of  his  turban,  and  see  —  the  huge  sweat  that  his  countenance  bathes, 
He  wipes  off  with  the  robe ;  and  he  girds  now  his  loins  as  of  yore, 
And  feels  slow  for  the  armlets  of  price,  with  the  clasp  set  before. 
He  is  Saul,  ye  remember  in  glory,  —  ere  error  had  bent 
The  broad  brow  from  the  daily  communion  ;  and  still,  though  much  spent 
Be  the  life  and  the  bearing  that  front  you,  the  same,  God  did  choose, 
To  receive  what  a  man  may  waste,  desecrate,  never  quite  lose. 
So  sank  he  along  by  the  tent-prop,  still,  stayed  by  the  pile 
Of  his  armor  and  war-cloak  and  garments,  he  leaned  there  a  while, 
And  sat  out  my  singing  —  one  arm  round  the  tent-prop,  to  raise 
His  bent  head,  and  the  other  hung  slack  —  till  I  touched  on  the  praise 
I  foresaw  from  all  men  in  all  time,  to  the  man  patient  there  ; 
And  thus  ended,  the  harp  falling  forward.    Then  first  I  was  'ware 
That  he  sat,  as  I  say,  with  my  head  just  above  his  vast  knees 
Which  were  thrust  out  on  each  side  around  me,  like  oak-roots  which  please 
To  encircle  a  lamb  when  it  slumbers.    I  looked  up  to  know 
If  the  best  I  could  do  had  brought  solace  :  he  spoke  not,  but  slow 
Lifted  »ip  the  hand  slack  at  his  side,  till  he  laid  it  with  care 
Soft  and  grave,  but  in  mild  settled  will,  on  my  brow  :  through  my  hair 
The  large  fingers  were  pushed,  and  he  bent  back  my  head,  with  kind  power- 
All  my  face  back,  intent  to  peruse  it,  as  men  do  a  flower. 
Thus  held  he  me  there  with  his  great  eyes  that  scrutinized  mine  — 
And  oh,  all  my  heart  how  it  loved  him  !  but  where  was  the  sign  ? 
I  yearned  —  "  Could  I  help  thee,  my  father,  inventing  a  bliss, 
I  would  add,  to  that  life  of  the  past,  both  the  future  and  this  ; 
I  would  give  thee  new  life  altogether,  as  good,  ages  hence 
As  this  moment,  —  had  love  but  the  warrant,  love's  heart  to  dispense  !  " 


Then  the  truth  came  upon  me.    No  harp  more — no  song  more  !  outbroke  — 


"  I  have  gone  the  whole  round  of  creation  :  I  saw  and  I  spoke  ; 

I,  a  work  of  God's  hand  for  that  purpose,  received  in  my  brain 

And  pronounced  on  the  rest  of  his  handwork  —  returned  him  again 

His  creation's  approval  or  censure  :  I  spoke  as  I  saw. 

I  report,  as  a  man  may  of  God's  work  —  all's  love,  yet  all's  law. 

Now  I  lay  down  the  jiidgeship  he  lent  me.     Each  faculty  tasked 

To  perceive  him,  has  gained  an  abyss,  where  a  dewdrop  was  asked. 

Have  I  knowledge  ?  confounded  it  shrivels  at  Wisdom  laid  bare. 

Have  I  forethought  ?  how  purblind,  how  blank,  to  the  Infinite  Care  ! 

Do  I  task  any  faculty  highest  to  image  success? 

I  but  open  my  eyes,  —  and  perfection,  no  more  and  no  less, 

In  the  kind  I  imagined,  full-fronts  me,  and  God  is  seen  God 

In  the  star,  in  the  stone,  in  the  flesh,  in  the  soul  and  the  clod. 

And  thus  looking  within  and  around  me,  I  ever  renew 

(With  that  stoop  of  the  soul  which  in  bending  upraises  it  too) 

The  submission  of  man's  nothing-perfect  to  God's  all-complete, 

As  by  each  new  obeisance  in  spirit,  I  climb  to  his  feet. 

Yet  with  all  this  abounding  experience,  this  deity  known, 

I  shall  dare  to  discover  some  province,  some  gift  of  my  own. 


SAUL.  125 


There's  a  faculty  pleasant  to  exercise,  hard  to  hoodwink, 

I  am  fain  to  keep  still  in  abeyance  (I  laugh  as  I  think), 

Lest,  insisting  to  claim  and  parade  in  it,  wot  ye,  I  worst 

E'en  the  Giver  in  one  gift.  —    Behold,  I  could  love  if  I  durst ! 

But  I  sink  the  pretension  as  fearing  a  man  may  o'ertake 

(lull's  own  speed  in  the  one  way  of  love  :  I  abstain  for  love's  sake. 

—  What,  my  soul  ?  see  thus  far  and  no  farther  ?  when  doors  great  and  small, 

Nine  and  ninety  flew  ope  at  our  touch,  should  the  hundredth  appal  ? 

In  the  least  things  have  faith,  yet  distrust  in  the  greatest  of  all  ? 

Do  I  find  love  so  full  in  my  nature,  God's  ultimate  gift, 

That  I  doubt  his  own  love  can  compete  with  it?    Here  the  parts  shift  ? 

Here,  the  creature  surpass  the  creator, — the  end,  what  began? 

Would  I  fain  in  my  impotent  yearning  do  all  for  this  man, 

And  dare  doubt  he  alone  shall  not  help  him,  who  yet  alone  can  ? 

Would  it  ever  have  entered  my  mind,  the  bare  will,  much  less  power, 

To  bestow  on  this  Saul  what  I  sang  of.  the  marvellous  dower 

Of  the  life  he  was  gifted  and  filled  with  ?  to  make  such  a  soul, 

Such  a  body,  and  then  such  an  earth  for  insphering  the  whole? 

And  doth  it  not  enter  my  mind  (as  my  warm  tears  attest) 

These  good  things  being  given,  to  go  on,  and  give  one  more,  the  best? 

Ay.  to  save  and  redeem  and  restore  him,  maintain  at  the  height 

Tins  perfection,  —  succeed,  with  life's  dayspring,  death's  minute  of  night? 

Interpose  at  the  difficult  minute,  snatch  Saul,  the  mistake, 

Saul,  the  failure,  the  ruin  he  seems  now,  —  and  bid  him  awake 

From  the  dream,  the  probation,  the  prelude,  to  find  himself  set 

Clear  and  safe  in  new  light  and  new  life,  —  a  new  harmony  yet 

To  be  run  and  continued,  and  ended  —  who  knows?  —  or  endure  ! 

The  man  taught  enough  by  life's  dream,  of  the  rest  to  make  sure  ; 

By  the  pain-throb,  triumphantly  winning  intensified  bliss, 

And  the  next  world's  reward  and  repose,  by  the  struggles  in  this. 


"  I  believe  it !    :Tis  thou,  God,  that  givest,  'tis  I  who  receive  : 

In  the  first  is  the  last,  in  thy  will  is  my  power  to  believe. 

All's  one  gift :  thou  canst  grant  it  moreover,  as  prompt  to  my  prayer, 

As  I  breathe  out  this  breath,  as  I  open  these  arms  to  the  air. 

From  thy  will,  stream  the  worlds,  life  and  nature,  thy  dread  Sabaoth  : 

/  will  ?  —  tlie  mere  atoms  despise  me  !     Why  am  I  not  loth 

To  look  that,  even  that  in  the  face  too  V    Why  is  it  I  dare 

Think  but  lightly  of  such  impuissance  ?    What  stops  my  despair  ? 

This  ;  —  'tis  not  what  man  Does  which  exalts  him,  but  what  man  Would  do  I 

See  the  King  —  I  would  help  him,  but  cannot,  the  wishes  fall  through. 

Oould  I  wrestle  to  raise  him  from  sorrow,  grow  poor  to  enrich, 

To  fill  up  his  life,  starve  my  own  out,  I  would  —  knowing  which, 

I  know  that  my  service  is  perfect.    Oh,  speak  through  me  now  ! 

Would  I  suffer  for  him  that  I  love?    So  wouldst  thou  —  so  wilt  thou  1 

So  shall  crown  thee  the  topmost,  ineffablest,  uttermost  crown  — 

And  thy  love  fill  infinitude  wholly,  nor  leave  up  nor  down 

One  spot  for  the  creature  to  stand  in  !    It  is  by  no  breath, 

Turn  of  eye,  wave  of  hand,  that  salvation  joins  issue  with  death  ! 

As  thy  love  is  discovered  almighty,  almighty  be  proved 

Thy  power,  that  exists  with  and  for  it,  of  being  beloved  ! 

He  who  did  most,  shall  bear  most ;  the  strongest  shall  stand  the  most  weak 

'Tis  the  weakness  in  strength,  that  I  cry  for  !  my  flesh,  that  I  seek 

In  the  Godhead  !     I  s«>e.k  and  I  find  it.-   O  Saul,  it  shall  be 

A  Face  like  my  face  that  receives  thee  ;  a  Man  like  to  me, 

Thou  shalt  love  and  be  loved  by,  forever  :  a  Hand  like  this  hand 

Shall  throw  open  the  gates  of  new  life  to  thee  !    See  the  Christ  stand  I " 


126 


RABBI   BEN  EZRA. 


I  know  not  too  well  how  I  found  my  way  home  in  the  night. 

There  were  witnesses,  cohorts  about  me,  to  left  and  to  right, 

Angels,  powers,  the  unuttered,  unseen,  the  alive,  the  aware  : 

I  repressed,  I  got  through  them  as  hardly,  as  strugglingly  there, 

As  a  runner  beset  by  the  populace  famished  for  news  — 

Life  or  death.    The  whole  earth  was  awakened,  hell  loosed  with  her  crews ; 

And  the  stars  of  night  beat  with  emotion,  and  tingled  and  shot 

Out  in  fire  the  strong  pairit  of  pent  knowledge  :  but  I  fainted  not, 

For  the  Hand  still  impelled  me  at  once  and  supported,  suppressed 

All  the  tumult,  and  quenched  it  with  quiet,  and  holy  behest, 

Till  the  rapture  was  shut  in  itself,  and  the  earth  sank  to  rest. 

Anon  at  the  dawn,  all  that  trouble  had  withered  from  earth  — 

Not  so  much,  but  I  saw  it  die  out  in  the  day's  tender  birth  ; 

In  the  gathered  intensity  brought  to  the  gray  of  the  hills  ; 

In  the  shuddering  forests'  held  breath  ;  in  the  sudden  wind-thrills  ; 

In  the  startled  wild  beasts  that  bore  oft,  each  with  eye  sidling  still 

Though  averted  with  wonder  and  dread  ;  in  the  birds  stiff  and  chill 

That  rose  heavily  as  I  approached  them,  made  stupid  with  awe  : 

E'en  the  serpent  that  slid  away  silent  —  he  felt  the  new  law. 

The  same  stared  in  the  white  humid  faces  upturned  by  the  flowers  ; 

The  same  worked  in  the  heart  of  the  cedar  and  moved  the  vine-bowers  : 

And  the  little  brooks  witnessing  murmured,  persistent  and  low, 

"With  their  obstinate,  all  but  hushed  voices —  "  E'en  so,  it  is  so  !  " 


RABBI  BEN  EZRA. 


GROW  old  along  with  me  ! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first 

was  made  : 

Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith,  "  A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half ;   trust  God  : 

see  all,  nor  be  afraid  !  " 


Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 

Youth    sighed,   "  Which   rose  make 

ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best 

recaft !  " 

Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned,  "  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars  ; 
Mine   be   some  figured  flame  which 

blends,  transcends  them  all !  " 


Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do   I  remonstrate  :   folly  wide   the 
mark ! 


Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled 
by  a  spark. 


Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 

Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 

On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and 

feast. 

Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men  ; 
Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird?    Frets 

doubt  the  maw-crammed  beast  ? 


Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  That  which  doth  provide 

And   not   partake,    effect    and    not 

receive  ! 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod  : 
Nearer  we  hold  of  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that 

take,  I  must  believe. 


Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 
That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand 
but  go ! 


RABBI   BEN   EZRA. 


127 


Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 
Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain  : 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang  ;  dare, 
never  grudge  the  throe  ! 


For  thence,  —  a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks,  — 

Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to 

fail: 

What  I  aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me  : 
A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would 

not  sink  i'  the  scale. 


What  is  he  but  a  brute 
Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit, 
Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs 

want  play  ? 

To  man,  propose  this  test  — 
Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on 

its  lone  wray  ? 


Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use  : 
I  own  the  Past  profuse  . 

Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every 

turn : 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  "  How 

good  to  live  and  learn  "  ? 


Not  once  beat  "  Praise  be  thine  ! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 

I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  per- 
fect too. 

Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan  : 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  ! 

Maker,  remake,  complete,  —  I  trust 
what  Thou  shalt  do  !  " 


For  pleasant  is  this  flesh  ; 
Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns 

for  rest  : 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute,  —  gain  most, 

as  we  (lid  best  !  " 


Let  us  not  always  say 

"  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 

I  strove,  made  head,  gained  ground 

upon  the  whole  !  " 
As  the  bird  wings  and  siiiits, 
Let  us  cry  "  All  good  things 
Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more, 

now,  than  flesh  helps  soul !  " 


Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 

Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached 

its  term  : 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From   the   developed  brute  ;  a  God 

though  in  the  germ. 

v7  xrv. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 
Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 
Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave 

and  new  : 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armor 

to  indue. 


Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 
My  gain  or  loss  thereby  ; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives 

is  gold :  • 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 
Give  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute  ;  I  shall 

know,  being  old. 


j  xvi. 

For,  note  when  evening  shuts, 
A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the 

gray: 

A  whisper  from  the  west 
Shoots  —  "  Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  try  its  worth  :  here  dies 

another  day." 


So,  still  within  this  life, 
Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce 
at  last, 


128 


RABBI  BEN   EZRA. 


"  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 
That  acquiescence  vain  : 
The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have 
proved  the  Past." 


For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to- 
day : 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 
Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of 
the  tool's  true  play. 


As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 

Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught 

found  made : 
So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.      Thou  waitedst  age  •  wait 

death,  nor  be  afraid  ! 


Enough  now,  if  the  Eight 

And  Good  and  Infinite 

Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy 

hand  thine  own, 
With  knowledge  absolute, 
Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor 

let  thee  feel  alone. 


Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 
Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the 

Past! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 
Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Right  ?   .Let  age  speak  the  truth  and 

give  us  peace  at  last ! 


XXII. 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  re- 
ceive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me  :  we  all  surmise, 

They,  this  thing,  and  I,  that :  whom 
shall  my  soul  believe  ? 


Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  "  work,"  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and 

had  the  price  ; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could 

value  in  a  trice  : 

XXIV. 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  ac- 
count : 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet 
swelled  the  man's  amount : 

XXV. 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 

Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language 

and  escaped  : 
All  I  could  never  be, 
All,  men  ignored  in  me, 
This,   I    was  worth    to    God,  whose 

wheel  the  pitcher  shaped. 


Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 

That  metaphor  !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies 

our  clay,  — 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
"  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change  ;  the 

Past  gone,  seize  to-day  !  " 


Fool !    All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God 

stand  sure  : 

What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be  : 
Time's    wheel    runs    back  or  stops  : 

Potter  and  clay  endure. 

XXVIII. 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance, 
This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst 
fain  arrest : 


EPILOGUE. 


129 


Machinery  just  meant 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee,  and  turn  thee  forth  suffi- 
ciently impressed. 


What  though  the  earlier  grooves 
Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 
Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and 

press  ? 

What  though,  about  thy  riin, 
Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the 

sterner  stress  ? 


Look  not  thou  down  but  up  ! 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 

The  festal   board,  lamp's  flash,  and 

trumpet's  peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 
The  Master's  lips  aglow  ! 
Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what 

needst  thou  with  earth's  wheel? 


But  I  need,  now  as  then, 
Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men  ! 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl 

was  worst, 

Did  I,  —  to  the  wheel  of  life 
With  shapes  and  colors  rife, 
Bound  dizzily,  —  mistake  my  end,  to 

slake  Thy  thirst : 


So,  take  and  use  Thy  work, 
Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 
What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warp- 
ings  past  the  aim  ! 
My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  ! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death 
complete  the  same  ! 


EPILOGUE. 

FIKST  SPEAKER,  as  David. 


ON  the  first  of  the  Feast  of  Feasts, 

The  Dedication  Day, 
When  the  Levites  joined  the  priests 

At  the  altar  in  robod  array, 
Gave  signal  to  sound  and  say,  — 


When  the  thousands,  rear  and  van, 
Swarming  with  one  accord, 

Became  as  a  single  man 
(Look,  gesture,  thought,  and  word), 

In  praising  and  thanking  the  Lord,  — 


When  the  singers  lift  up  their  voice, 
And  the  trumpets  made  endeavor, 

Sounding,  "  In  God  rejoice  !  " 
Saying,  "  In  Him  rejoice 

Whose  mercy  endureth  forever  I  " 


Then  the  Temple  filled  with  a  cloud, 
Even  the  House  of  the  Lord  ; 

Porch  bent  and  pillar  bowed  : 
For  the  presence  of  the  Lord, 

In  the  glory  of  His  cloud, 
Had  filled  the  House  of  the  Lord. 

SECOND  SPEAKER,  a*  Renan. 

Gone  now  !    All  gone  across  the  dark 

so  far, 
Sharpening  fast,  shuddering  ever, 

shutting  still, 
Dwindling    into    the    distance,    dies 

that  star 
Which  came,  stood,  opened  once  ! 

We  gazed  our  fill 

With  upturned  faces  on  as  real  a  Face 
That,   stooping  from  grave   music 

and  mild  fire, 
Took  in  our  homage,  made  a  visible 

place 
Through  many  a   depth   of   glory, 

gyre  on  gyre, 
For   the   dim    human   tribute.     Was 

this  true  ? 
Could  man  indeed  avail,  mere  praise 

of  his, 

To  help  by  rapture  God's  own  rap- 
ture too, 
Thrill  with  a  heart's  red  tinge  that 

pure  pale  bliss  ? 
Why  did  it  end  ?    Who  failed  to  beat 

the  breast, 
And  shriek,  and  throw  the   arms 

protesting  wide, 
When  a  first  shadow  showed  the  star 

addressed 

Itself  to  motion,  and  on  either  sidw 
The    rims    contracted    as    the    rays 

retired  ; 

The  music,  like  a  fountain's  sicken- 
ing pulse, 


130 


EPILOGUE. 


Subsided  on  itself  :  a  while  transpired 
Some  vestige  of  a  Face  no  pangs 

convulse, 
No  prayers  retard  ;    then   even  this 

was  gone, 
Lost  in  the  night  at  last.    "We,  lone 

and  left 
Silent   through   centuries,  ever   and 

anon 
Venture  to  probe  again  the  vault 

bereft 

Of  all  now  save  the  lesser  lights,  a  mist 
Of  multitudinous  points,  yet  suns, 

men  say  — 

And  this  leaps  ruby,  this  lurks  ame- 
thyst, 
But  where   may  hide  what    came 

and  loved  our  clay  ? 
How  shall  the  sage  detect  in  yon  ex- 
panse 
The  star  which  chose  to  stoop  and 

stay  for  us  ? 
Unroll  the  records  !    Hailed  ye  such 

advance 
Indeed,  and  did  your  hope  evanish 

thus? 
Watchers   of   twilight,  is   the  worst 

averred  ? 

We  shall  not  look  up,  know  our- 
selves are  seen, 
Speak,  and  be  sure  that  we  again  are 

heard, 
Acting  or  suffering,  have  the  disk's 

serene 
Reflect  our  life,   absorb   an  earthly 

flame, 
Nor  doubt  that,  were  mankind  inert 

and  numb, 
Its  core  had  never  crimsoned  all  the 

same, 
Nor,  missing  ours,  its  music  fallen 

dumb? 

Oh,  dread  succession  to  a  dizzy  post, 
Sad  sway  of  sceptre  whose  mere 

touch  appals, 
Ghastly    dethronement,     cursed    by 

those  the  most 

On    whose    repugnant     brow    the 
crown  next,  falls ! 


THIRD  SPEAKER. 


Witless  alike  of  will  and  way  divine, 
How  heaven's  high  with  earth's  low 

should  intertwine ! 
Friends,   I  have  seen  through  your 

eyes  :  now  use  mine  ! 


Take  the  least  man  of  all  mankind, 

as  I ; 
Look  at  his  head  and  heart,  find  how 

and  why 
He  differs  from  his  fellows  utterly  : 


Then,  like  me,  watch  when  nature  by 

degrees 
Grows  alive  round  him,  as  in  Arctic 

seas 
(They   said    of    old)   the   instinctive 

water  flees 


Toward  some  elected  point  of  central 

rock, 
As  though,  for  its  sake  only,  roamed 

the  flock 
Of  waves  about  the  waste  :  a  while 

they  mock 


With  radiance  caught  for  the  occa- 
sion,—  hues 

Of  blackest  hell  now,  now  such  reds 
and  blues 

As  only  heaven  could  fitly  interfuse,  — 


The  mimic  monarch  of  the  whirlpool, 

king 
O'  the  current  for  a  minute:  then  they 

wring 
Up  by  the  roots  and  oversweep  the 

thing, 


And  hasten  off,  to  play  again  else- 
where 

The  same  part,  choose  another  peak 
as  bare, 

They  find  and  flatter,  feast  and  fin- 
ish there. 


When  you  see  what  I  tell  you,  —  na- 
ture dance 

About  each  man  of  us,  retire,  ad- 
vance, 

As  though  the  pageant's  end  were  to 
enhance 


APPARITIONS. 


His  worth,   and  —  once  t'le  life,  his 

nroduct.  grained  — 
Roll  away  elsewhere,  keep  the  strife 

sustained, 
And  show  thus  real,  a  thing  the  North 

but  feigned, — 

x. 

When    yon    acknowledge    that    one 

world  could  do 
All  the  diverse  work,  old  yet  ever 

new, 
Divide  us,  each  from  other,  me  from 

you,— 

XI. 

Why  !   where's  the  need  of  Temple, 

when  the  walls 
O'  the  world  are  that  ?  What  use  of 

swells  and  falls 
From  Levites'  choir,  priests'  cries, 

and  trumpet-calls  ? 

XII. 

That  one  Face,  far  from  vanish,  rather 

grows, 

Or  decomposes  but  to  recompose, 
Become  my  universe  that  feels  and 

knows  ! 


A   WALL. 


OH  the  old  wall  here  !    How  I  could 
pass 

Life  in  a  long  midsummer  day. 
My  feet  confined  to  a  plot  of  grass, 

My  eyes  from  a  wall  not  once  away  ! 


And  lush  and  lithe  do  the  creepers 

clothe 
Yon  wall  I  watch,  with  a  wealth  of 

green  : 
Its  bald   red  bricks  draped,  nothing 

loth, 

In  lappets  of  tangle  they  laugh  be- 
tween. 

in. 
Now,  what  is  it  makes  pulsate  the 

robe? 

Why  tremble    the  sprays?    What 
life  o'erbrims 


The  body,  —  the   house,  no  eye  can 

probe,  — 

Divined   as,    beneath   a  robe,   the 
limbs  ? 


And  there  again  !    But  my  heart  may 

guess 
Who  tripped  behind  ;  and  she  sang 

perhaps : 
So,  the    old  wall  throbbed,  and  its 

life's  excess 

Died   out   and  away  in  the  leafy 
wraps. 


Wall  upon  wall  are  between  us  :  life 
And  song  should  away  from  heart 

to  heart ! 

I  —  prison-bird,  with  a  ruddy  strife 
At  breast,  and  a  lip  whence  storni- 
notes  start  — 


Hold  on,  hope  hard  in  the  subtle  thing 
That's  spirit :  though  cloistered  fast, 

soar  free  ; 
Account  as  wood,  brick,  stone,  this 

ring 

Of  the  rueful  neighbors,  and  —forth 
to  thee  ! 


APPARITIONS. 


SUCH  a  starved  bank  of  moss 
Till,  that  May-morn, 

Blue  ran  the  flash  across  : 
Violets  were  born  ! 


Sky  —  what  a  scowl  of  cloud 

Till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud  : 

Splendid,  a  star  ! 


World  —  how  it  walled  about 

Life  with  disgrace 
Till  God's  own  smile  came  out 

That  was  thy  face  ! 


132 


NATURAL   MAGIC. 


NATURAL   MAGIC. 


ALL  I  can  say  is  —  I  saw  it  ! 

The  room  was  as  bare  as  your  hand. 

I  locked  in  the  swarth  little  lady,  — 

I  swear, 
From  the  head  to  the  foot  of  her  — 

well,  quite  as  bare  ! 
"  No  Nautch  shall  cheat  me,"  said  I, 

"  taking  my  stand 
At  this  bolt  which  I  draw ! "    And 

this  bolt  —  I  withdraw  it, 
And  there  laughs  the  lady,  not  bare, 

but  embowered 
"With  —  who    knows    what    verdure, 

o'erfruited,  o'erflowered  ? 
Impossible  !    Only  —  I  saw  it ! 


All  I  can  sing  is  —  I  feel  it ! 

This  life  was  as  blank  as  that  room  ; 

I  let  you  pass  in  here.    Precaution, 

indeed  ? 
"Walls,    ceiling,    and    floor,  —  not    a 

chance  for  a  weed  ! 
Wide  opens  the  entrance  :   where's 

cold  now,  where's  gloom  ? 
No  May  to  sow  seed  here,  no  June  to 

reveal  it, 
Behold  you  enshrined  in  these  blooms 

of  your  bringing, 
These  fruits  of  your  bearing  —  nay, 

birds  of  your  winging  ! 
A  fairy-tale  !    Only  —  I  feel  it ! 


MAGICAL  NATURE. 


FLOWER  —  I  never  fancied,   jewel  — 

I  profess  you ! 

Bright  I  see  and  soft  I  feel  the  out- 
side of  a  flower. 
Save  but  glow  inside  and — jewel,  I 

should  guess  you, 

Dim  to  sight  and  rough  to  touch  : 
the  glory  is  the  dower. 


Sou,  forsooth,  a  flower?    Nay,  my 

love,  a  jewel  — 

Jewel  at  no  mercy  of  a  moment  in 
your  prime ! 


Time  may  fray  the  flower-face  :  kind 

be  time  or  cruel, 

Jewel,  from  each  facet,  flash  your 
laugh  at  time  ! 


GARDEN   FANCIES. 

I.     THE   FLOWER'S   NAME. 


HERE'S  the  garden  she  walked  across, 
Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while 

since  : 
Hark,  now   I   push  its   wicket,   the 

moss 
Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them 

wince ! 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere 

she  turned, 
As    back    with    that   murmur    the 

wicket  swung  ; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail,  my  chance 

foot  spurned, 

To  feed  and  forget   it   the   leaves 
among. 

n. 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel-walk 
She    went   while   her   robe's    edge 

brushed  the  box  : 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious 

talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk- 
white  phlox. 

Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 
I  will  never  think  that  she  passed 

you  by ! 

She  loves  you  noble  roses,  I  know  ; 
But  yonder,  see,  where  the  rock- 
plants  lie  ! 


This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on 

lip, 
Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling 

its  claim  ; 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make 

no  slip, 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name. 
What  a  name  !  Was  it  love,  or  praise  ? 
Speech    half-asleep,    or  song    half- 
awake  ? 
I  must  learn   Spanish,  one  of  these 

days, 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet    name's 
sake. 


v  - i«» 

'' 


"  Lay  on  the  grass  and  forgot  the  oaf 
Over  a  jolly  chapter  of  Rabelais." —  Page  133, 


GARDEN  FANCIES. 


133 


Roses,  —  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit    you    each    with     his    Spanisn 

phrase. 

But  do  not  detain  me  now  ;  for  she 
lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 
And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 


v. 
Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you 

grow  not, 

Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  for- 
ever ! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  'tis  that  you  blow 

not, 
Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens 

never ! 

For  while  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wres- 
tle, 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  be- 
tween, 
Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they 

nestle  ; 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to   be 
seen? 

VI. 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish  ; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee  : 

Is  there  no  method  to    tell    her  in 

Spanish 
June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed 

it  with  me  ? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her 

traces, 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall ! 
—  Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your 

faces  — 
Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all  ! 


II. 
8IBKANDUS    8CHAFNABURGENSIS. 

I. 

PLAGUE  take  all  your  pedants,  say  I ! 
He  who  wrote  what  I  hold  in  my 

hand, 

Centuries  back  was  so  good  as  to  die, 
Leaving  this  rubbish  to  cumber  the 

land  : 

Thia,  that  was  a  book  in  its  time, 
Printed    on    paper  and    bound    in 
leather, 


Last  month  in  the  white  of  a  rnatm- 

prime 

Just  when  the  birds  sang  all   to- 
gether. 


Into  the  garden  I  brought  it  to  read, 

And  under  the  arbute  and  laurus- 

tine 
Read  it,  so  help  me  grace  in  my  need, 

From  title-page  to  closing  line. 
Chapter  on  chapter  did  I  count, 

As  a  curious  traveller  counts  Stone» 

henge ; 
Added  up  the  mortal  amount, 

And  then  proceeded  to  my  revenge. 

in. 

Yonder 's  a  plum-tree  with  a  crevice 
An  owl  would  build  in,  were  he  but 

sage  ; 
For  a  lap  of  moss,  like  a  fine  pont 

levis 

In  a  castle  of  the  middle  age, 
Joins  to  a  lip  of  gum,  pure  amber  ; 
When  he'd  be  private,  there  might 

he  spend 

Hours  alone  in  his  lady's  chamber  : 
Into  this   crevice    I    dropped    om 
friend. 

IV. 

Splash,  went  he,  as  under  he  ducked, 
—  At  the  bottom,  I  knew,  rain-drip 

pings  stagnate  ; 

Next,  a  handful  of  blossoms  I  plucked 
To  bury  him  with,  my  bookshelf's 

magnate  ; 
Then  I  went  indoors,  brought  out  a 

loaf, 
Half  a  cheese,  and  a  bottle  of  Ch* 

blis ; 

Lay  on  the  grass  and  forgot  the  oaf 
Over  a  jolly  chapter  of  Rabelais. 


Now,  this  morning,  betwixt  the  moss 
And  gum  that  locked  our  friend  in 

limbo, 

A  spider  had  spun  his  web  across, 
And  sat  in  the  midst  with    .-irur. 

akimbo : 
So,  I  took  pity,  for  learning's  sake, 

And,  de  proftnxlis,  accentibus  hetin, 
Cantate  !  quoth  I,  as  I  got  a  rake  ; 
And  up  I  fished  his  delectable  trea- 
tise. 


J  1  P.    I.     9                                                                                                                                                   C  1_9  I  U^ 

*)  £         134                                              JN   THREE  DAYS. 

i 

D 

ft 

VI. 

A.'s  book  shall  prop  you  up,  B.'s  shall 

Here  you  have  it,  dry  in  the  sun, 
With  all  the  binding  all  of  a  blister, 

cover  you, 
Here's  C.  to  be  grave  with,  or  D.  to 

And  great  blue  spots  where  the  ink 
has  run, 

be  gay, 
And  with  E.  on  each  side,  and  F.  right        • 

u 

And  reddish  streaks  that  wink  and 

over  you, 

glister 

Dry-rot  at  ease  till  the  Judgment 

O'er  the  page  so  beautifully  yellow  : 
Oh,  well  have  the  droppings  played 

clay  ! 

their  tricks  ! 

Did  he  guess  how  toadstools  grow, 

this  fellow  ? 
Here's  one  stuck  in  his  chapter  six  ! 

IN  THREE  DAYS. 

i. 

VII. 

So,  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 

How  did  he  like  it  when  the    live 

And  just  one  night,  but  nights  are 

creatures 

short, 

Tickled   and  toused  and  browsed 

Then    two    long   hours,  and  that  is 

him  all  over, 

morn. 

And    worm,  slug,  eft,  with    serious 

See  how  I  come,  unchanged,  unworn  ! 

features, 

Feel,  where  my  life  broke  off  from 

Came  in,  each  one,  for  his  right  of 

thine, 

trover  ? 

How  fresh    the    splinters    keep  and 

-"When  the  water-beetle  with  great 

fine,— 

blind  deaf  face 

Only  a  touch,  and  we  combine  ! 

Made  of  her  eggs    the  stately  de- 

posit, 

ii. 

And  the  newt  borrowed  just  so  much 
of  the  preface 
As  tiled  in  the  top  of    his  black 

Too  long,  this  time  of  year,  the  days  ! 
But  nights,  at  least  the  nights  are 
snort;. 

wife's  closet  ? 

As  night  shows  where  her  one  moon 

is, 

VIII. 

A  hand  s-breadth  of  pure  light  and 

All  that  life  and  fun  and  romping, 
All  that  frisking  and  twisting  and 
coupling, 

bliss, 
So  life's  night  gives  my  lady  birth 
And    my  eyes    hold    her  !    "What  is 

"While  slowly  our  poor  friend's  leaves 
were  swamping, 

worth 
The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth  ? 

And  clasps  were  cracking,  and  cov- 

ers suppling  ! 

in. 

As  if   you    had   carried   sour   John 

O  loaded  curls  !  release  your  store 

Knox 

Of  warmth  and  scent,  as  once  before 

To  the  playhouse  at  Paris,  Vienna, 
or  Munich, 
Fastened  him  into  a  front-row  box, 

The  tingling  hair  did,  lights  and  darks 
Outbreaking  into  fairy  sparks, 
When  under  curl  and  curl  I  pried 

And    danced    off   the  ballet  with 

After  the  warmth  and  scent  inside, 

trousers  and  tunic. 

Through  lights  and  darks  how  mani- 

fold— 

IX. 

The    dark    inspired,    the    light    con- 

Come,  old  martyr  !    "What,  torment 
enough  is  it  ? 

trolled, 
As  early  Art  embrowns  the  gold  ! 

T              Back  to  my  room  shall  you  take 

your  sweet  self. 
Good-by,    mother-beetle  ;     husband- 

IV.                                                        ft 

What   great    fear,    should   one   say, 

ft 

eft,  sufficit  ! 
See  the  snug  niche  I  have  made  on 

"  Three  days, 
That  change  the  world,  might  change 

my  shelf  ! 

as  well 

J  l»                                                                                                                                                    J 

m 

g 

V4jjs-l  s                                                                                     °~  t  r-sL.Lp' 

RUDEL    TO    THE  LADY   OF   TRIPOLI. 


135 


Your  fortune  ;  and  if  joy  delays, 
Be  happy  that  no  worse  befell !  " 
What  small  fear,  if  another  says. 
"Three  days  and  one  shortnight  be- 
side 

May  throw  no  shadow  on  your  ways  ; 
But  years   must  teem  with    change 

untried, 

"With  chance  not  easily  defied, 
With  an  end  somewhere  undescried." 
No  fear  !  —  or,  if  a  fear  be  born 
This  minute,  fear  dies  out  in  scorn. 
Fear  ?    I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
And  one  night,  now  the  nights' are 

short, 

Then   just   two   hours,  and   that   is 
morn  ! 


THE  LOST  MISTRESS. 


ALL'S  over,  then  :  does  truth  sound 

bitter 

As  one  at  first  believes  ? 
Hark,   'tis  the  sparrows'  good-night 

twitter 
About  your  cottage  eaves  ! 


And   the  leaf-buds  on  the  vine  are 
woolly, 

I  noticed  that  to-day  ; 
One  day  more  bursts  them  open  fully  : 

You  know  the  red  turns  gray. 


To-morrow  we  meet  the  same  then, 

dearest  ? 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine  ? 
Mere  friends  are  we, —  well,  friends 

the  merest 
Keep  much  that  I  resign. 


Each  glance  of  the  eye  so  bright  and 

black, 

Though   I   keep  with   heart's   en- 
deavor, — 

Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snow- 
drops back, 
Though  it  stay  in  my  soul  forever,  — 


Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends 

say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger  ; 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as 

all  may, 
Or  so  very  little  longer  ! 


ONE  WAY  OF  LOVE. 


ALL  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may 

pass. 

She  will  not  turn  aside  ?    Alas  ! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die  ? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her 

eye. 

n. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute  ! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music  ?    So  ! 
Break  the  string  ;  fold  music's  wing : 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing  F 


My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 
This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 
And  speak  my  passion  —  heaven  or 

hell? 
She  will  not  give  me  heaven  ?    'Tis 

well ! 

Lose  who  may  —  I  still  can  say, 
Those    who   win   heaven,    blest   are 

they! 


RUDEL    TO    THE    LADY    OF 
TRIPOLI. 

i. 
I  KNOW  a  Mount,  the  gracious  Sun 

perceives 
First,  when  he  visits,  last,  too,  when 

he  leaves 
The  world  ;  and,  vainly  favored,  it 

repays 
The  day-long  glory  of  his  steadfast 

gaze 


136 


N  UMPHOL  EPTOS. 


By  no  change  of  its  large  calm  front 

of  snow. 
And,  underneath  the  Mount,  a  Flower 


I  know, 
He    cannot     have 
changes  ever 


perceived,     that 


At  his  approach  ;  and,  in  the  lost 
endeavor 

To  live  his  life,  has  parted,  one  by 
one, 

With  all  a  flower's  true  graces,  for  the 
grace 

Of  being  but  a  foolish  mimic  sun, 

With  ray-like  florets  round  a  disk- 
like  face. 

Men  nobly  call  by  many  a  name  the 
Mount 

As  over  many  a  land  of  theirs  its 
large 

Calm  front  of  snow  like  a  triumphal 
targe 

Is  reared,  and  still  with  old  names, 
fresh  names  vie, 

Each  to  its  proper  praise  and  own  ac- 
count : 

Men  call  the  Flower,  the  Sunflower, 
sportively. 


O  Angel  of  the  East !  one,  one  gold 

look 
Across   the   waters   to  this  twilight 

nook, 
—  The  far  sad  waters,  Angel,  to  this 

nook ! 


Dear  Pilgrim,  art  thou  for  the  East 
indeed  ? 

Go  !  —  saying  ever  as  thou  dost  pro- 
ceed, 

That  I,  French  Rudel,  choose  for  my 
device 

A  sunflower  outspread  like  a  sacri- 
fice 

Before  its  idol.  See  !  These  inex- 
pert 

And  hurried  fingers  could  not  fail  to 
hurt 

The  woven  picture  ;  'tis  a  woman's 
skill 

Indeed  ;  but  nothing  baffled  me,  so, 


ill 

Or  well,  the  work  is  finished, 
men  feed 


Say, 


On  songs  I  sing,  and  therefore  bask 
the  bees 

On  my  flower's  breast  as  on  a  plat- 
form broad  : 


But,  as  the  flower's  concern  is  not 
for  these 

But  solely  for  the  sun,  so  men  ap- 
plaud 

In  vain  this  Rudel,  he  not  looking 
here 

But  to  the  East  —  the  East !  Go,  say 
this,  Pilgrim  dear  ! 


NUMPHOLEPTOS. 

STILL  you  stand,  still  you  listen,  still 

you  smile  ! 
Still  melts  your  moonbeam  through 

me,  white  a  while, 
Softening,  sweetening,  till  sweet  and 

soft 
Increase  so  round  this  heart  of  mine, 

that  oft 
I  could  believe  your  moonbeam-smile 

has  past 
The  pallid  limit  and,  transformed  at 

last, 
Lies,  sunlight  and  salvation  —  warms 

the  soul 
It    sweetens,    softens !     Would  you 

pass  that  goal, 

Gain  love's  birth  at  the  limit's  hap- 
pier verge, 
And,  where -an  iridescence  lurks,  but 

urge 

The  hesitating  pallor  on  to  prime 
Of  dawn  !  — true  blood-streaked,  sun- 
warmth,  action-time, 
By  heart-pulse  ripened  to  a  ruddy  glow 
Of   gold    above    my  clay  —  I   scarce 

should  know 
From  gold's  self,  thus  suffused  !    For 

gold  means  love. 
What  means  the  sad  slow  silver  smile 

above 
My  clay  but  pity,  pardon?  — at  the 

best, 

But  acquiescence  that  I  take  my  rest, 
Contented  to  be  clay,  while  in  your 

heaven 

The  sun  reserves  love  for  the  Spirit- 
Seven 
Companioning  God's  throne  they  lamp 

before, 
—  Leaves  earth  a  mute  waste   only 

wandered  o'er 
By  that  pale  soft    sweet    disempas- 

sioned  moon 
Which  smiles  me  slow  forgiveness  J 

Such,  the  boon 


NUMPHOLEPTOS. 


137 


I  beg?  Nay,  dear,  submit  to  this  — 
just  this 

Supreme  endeavor  !  As  my  lips  now 
kiss 

Your  feet,  my  arms  convulse  your 
shrouding  robe, 

My  eyes,  acquainted  with  the  dust, 
dare  probe 

Your  eyes  above  for  —  what,  if  born, 
would  blind 

Mine  with  redundant  bliss,  as  flash 
.  may  find 

The  inert  nerve,  sting  awake  the  pal- 
sied limb, 

Bid  with  life's  ecstasy  sense  over- 
brim 

And  suck  back  death  in  the  resurging 
joy  — 

So  grant  me  —  love,  whole,  sole,  with- 
out alloy  ! 

Vainly  !     The  promise    withers  !     I 

employ 
Lips,  arms,   eyes,    pray   the    prayer 

which  finds  the  word, 
Make  the  appeal  which  must  be  felt, 

not  heard, 
And  none  the  more  is  changed  your 

calm  regard  : 
Rather,  its  sweet  and  soft  grow  harsh 

and  hard  — 

Forbearance,  then  repulsion,  then  dis- 
dain. 
Avert  the  rest !    I  rise,  see  !  —  make, 

again 
Once    more,  the    old    departure    for 

some  track 
Untried  yet  through  a  world  which 

brings  me  back 
Ever  thus    fruitlessly  to    find    your 

feet, 
To  fix  your  eyes,  to  pray  the  soft  and 

sweet 
Which  smile  there  —  take  from    his 

new  pilgrimage 
Your  outcast,  once  your  inmate,  and 

assuage 
With  love  —  not  placid  pardon  now — 

his  thirst 
For  a  mere  drop  from  out  the  ocean 

erst 
He  drank  at  I    Well,  the  quest  shall 

be  renewed. 
Fear  nothing  !    Though  I  linger,  un- 

iralmed 
With  any  drop,  my  lips  thus  close.    I 

go  ! 
So  did  I  leave  you,  I  have  found  you 

so, 


And  doubtlessly,  if  fated  to  return, 
So  shall  my  pleading  persevere  and 

earn 
Pardon  —  not    love  —  in    that     same 

smile,  I  learn, 
And  lose  the  meaning  of,  to  learn 

once  more, 
Vainly ! 

What  fairy  track  do  I  ex- 
plore ? 

What  magic  hall  return  to,  like  the 
gem 

Centuply-angled  o'er  a  diadem  ? 

You  dwell  there,  hearted  ;  from  your 
midmost  home 

Rays  forth  —  through  that  fantastic 
world  I  roam 

Ever — from  centre  to  circumference, 

Shaft  upon  colored  shaft :  this  crim- 
sons thence, 

That  purples  out  its  precinct  through 
the  waste. 

Surely  I  had  your  sanction  when  I 
faced, 

Fared  forth  upon  that  untried  yellow 
ray 

Whence  I  retrack  my  steps?  They 
end  to-day 

Where  they  began,  before  your  feet, 
beneath 

Your  eyes,  your  smile:  the  blade  is 
shut  in  sheath, 

Fire  quenched  in  flint ;  irradiation, 
late 

Triumphant  through  the  distance, 
finds  its  fate, 

Merged  in  your  blank  pure  soul,  alike 
the  source 

And  tomb  of  that  prismatic  glow : 
divorce 

Absolute,  all-conclusive !  Forth  J. 
fared, 

Treading  the  lambent  flamelet :  little 
cared 

If  now  its  flickering  took  the  topaz 
tint, 

If  now  my  dull-caked  path  gave  sul- 
phury hint 

Of  subterranean  rage  —  no  stay  nor 
stint 

To  yellow,  since  you  sanctioned  that 
I  bathe, 

Burnish  me,  soul  and  body,  swim  and 
swathe 

In  yellow  license.  Here  I  reek  suf- 
fused 

With  crocus,  saffron,  orange,  a»  I 
used 


138 


NUMPHOLEPTOS. 


With  scarlet,  purple,  every  dye  o'  the 
bow 

Born  of  the  storm-cloud.    As  before, 
you  show 

Scarce  recognition,  no  approval,  some 

Mistrust,  more  wonder  at  a  man  be- 
come 

Monstrous  in  garb,   nay  —  flesh   dis- 
guised as  well, 

Through  his  adventure.    "Whatsoe'er 
befell, 

I  followed,  wheresoe'er  it  wound,  that 
vein 

You  authorized    should   leave    your 
whiteness,  stain 

Earth's  sombre  stretch  beyond  your 
midmost  place 

Of  vantage,  —  trode  that  tinct  where- 
of the  trace 

On  garb  and  flesh  repel  you  !    Yes,  I 
plead 

Your    own    permission  —  your    com- 
mand, indeed, 

That  who  would  worthily  retain  the 
love 

Must  share  the  knowledge    shrined 
those  eyes  above, 

Go     boldly     on     adventure,     break 
through  bounds 

O'  the  quintessential  whiteness  that 
surrounds 

Your  feet,  obtain  experience  of  each 
tinge 

That  bickers  forth  to  broaden  out, 
impinge 

Plainer  his  foot  its  pathway  all  dis- 
tinct 

From  every  other.    Ah,  the  wonder, 
linked 

"With  fear,  as  exploration  manifests 

What  agency  it  was  first  tipped  the 
crests 

Of    unnamed  wild-flower,  soon  pro- 
truding grew 

Portentous  mid  the  sands,  as  when 
his  hue 

Betrays  him  and  the  burrowing  snake 
gleams  through  ; 

Till,  last  .  .  .  but  why  parade  more 
shame  and  pain  ? 

Are  not  the  proofs  upon  me?    Here 
again 

I  pass  into  your  presence,  I  receive 

Your  smile  of    pity,  pardon,  and   I 
leave  .  .  . 

No,  not  this  last  of  times  I  leave  you, 

mute, 

Submitted    to    my    penance,    so    my 
foot 


May  yet  again  adventure,  tread,  from 
source 

To  issue,  one  more  ray  of  rays  which 
course 

Each  other,  at  your  bidding,  from  the 
sphere 

Silver  and    sweet,    their  birthplace, 
down  that  drear 

Dark    of   the    world, — you    promise 
shall  return 

Your  pilgrim  jewelled  as  with  drops 
o'  the  urn 

The   rainbow   paints   from,   and   no 
smatch  at  all 

Of  ghastliness  at  edge  of  some  cloud- 
pall 

Heaven  cowers  before,  as  earth  awaits 
the  fall 

O'  the  bolt  and  flash  of  doom.    "Who 
trusts  your  word 

Tries  the  adventure  :  and  returns  — 
absurd 

As  frightful  —  in  that  sulphur-steeped 
disguise 

Mocking   the   priestly   cloth-of-gold, 
sole  prize 

The  arch-heretic  was  wont  to   bear 
away 

Until  he  reached  the  burning.    No,  I 
say: 

No  fresh  adventure  !    No  more  seek- 
ing love 

At    end   of  toil,    and   finding,   calm 
above 

My  passion,  the   old  statuesque  re- 
gard, 

The  sad  petrific  smile  ! 


O  you  —  less  hard 

And  hateful  than  mistaken  and  ob- 
tuse 

Unreason  of  a  she-intelligence  ! 

You  very  woman  with  the  pert  pre- 
tence 

To  match  the  male  achievement ! 
Like  enough  ! 

Ay,  you  were  easy  victors,  did  the 
rough 

Straightway  efface  itself  to  smooth, 
the  gruff 

Grind  down  and  grow  a  whisper,  — 
did  man's  truth 

Subdue,  for  sake  of  chivalry  and 
ruth, 

Its  rapier  edge  to  suit  the  bulrush- 
spear 

Womanly  falsehood  fights  with!  O 
that  ear 


THE    WORST   OF  IT. 


139 


All  fact  pricks  rudely,  that   thrice- 
superfine 

Feminity  of  sense,  with  right  divine 
To   waive   all    process,    take   result 

stain-free 

From  out  the  very  muck  wherein  .  .  . 

Ah  me  ! 

The  true  slave's  querulous  outbreak  ! 

All  the  rest 

Be  resignation  !    Forth  at  your  behest 
I  fare.    Who  knows  but  this  — the 

crimson-quest  — 

May  deepen  to  a  sunrise,  not  decay 
To  that  cold  sad  sweet  smile  ?  —  which 
I  obey. 


APPEARANCES. 


AND  so  you  found  that  poor  room 

dull, 
Dark,    hardly   to   your   taste,   my 

Dear? 

Its  features  seemed  unbeautiful : 
But  this  I  know  —  'twas  there,  not 

here, 

You  plighted  troth  to  me,  the  word 
Which  —  ask  that  poor  room  how  it 

heard ! 


And  this  rich  room  obtains  your  praise 
Unqualified,  —  so  bright,  so  fair, 

So  all  whereat  perfection  stays  ? 
Ay,  but  remember  —  here,  not  there, 

The  other  word  was  spoken  !    Ask 

This  rich  room  how  you  dropped  the 
mask  1 


THE  WORST   OF  IT. 


WOULD  it  were  I  had  been  false,  not 

you  ! 
I  that  am  nothing,  not  you  that  are 

all : 

I,  never  the  worse  for  a  touch  or  two 
On  my  speckled  hide  ;  not  you,  the 

pride 
Of  the  day,  my  swan,  that  a  first 

fleck's  fall 

On  her  wonder  of  white  must  un- 
swan,  undo ! 


ii. 

I  had  dipped  in  life's  struggle  and, 

out  again, 
Bore  specks  of  it  here,  there,  easy 

to  see, 
When  I  found  my  swan  and  the  cure 

was  plain  ; 
The  dull  turned  bright  as  I  caught 

your  white 
On  my  bosom  :  you  saved  me  —  saved 

in  vain 

If   you    ruined   yourself,    and    all 
through  me  ! 


Yes,  all  through  the  speckled  beast 

I  am, 
Who  taught  you  to  stoop  ;  you  gave 

me  yourself, 
And  bound  your  soul  by  the  vows 

which  damn  : 
Since  on  better  thought  you  break, 

as  you  ought, 
Vows  —  words,  no  angel  set   down, 

some  elf 
Mistook,  —  for  an  oath,  an  epigram ! 


Yes,  might  I  judge  you,  here  were  my 

heart, 
And  a  hundred  its  like,  to  treat  as 

you  pleased  ! 
I  choose  to  be  yours,  for  my  proper 

part, 
Yours,  leave  me  or  take,  or  mar  or 

make  ; 
If  I  acquiesce,  why  should  you  be 

teased 

With  the  conscience-prick  and  the 
memory-smart  ? 


But   what   will   God   say?      O    my 

Sweet, 
Think,  and  be  sorry  you  did  this 

thing ! 
Though  earth  were  unworthy  to  feel 

your  feet, 

There's   a   heaven  above  may  de- 
serve your  love : 
Should  you  forfeit  heaven  for  a  snapt 

gold  ring 

And  a  promise  broke,  were  it  just 
or  meet  ? 


140 


THE    WORST   Or  IT. 


And  I  to  have  tempted  you  !    I,  who 

tried 
Your  soul,  no  doubt,  till  it  sank  ! 

Unwise, 
I  loved  and  was  lowly,  loved   and 

aspired, 
Loved,  grieving  or  glad,  till  I  made 

you  mad, 
A.nd  you  meant  to  have  hated  and 

despised  — 

"Whereas,  you  deceived  me  nor  in- 
quired ! 

vn. 
She,  ruined  ?    How  ?    No  heaven  for 

her? 
Crowns  to  give,  and  none  for  the 

brow 
That  looked  like  marble  and  smelt 

like  myrrh  ? 
Shall  the  robe  be  worn,  and  the 

palm-branch  borne, 
And  she  go  graceless,  she  graced  now 
Beyond    all  saints,   as  themselves 
aver? 

vm. 

Hardly  !    That  must  be  understood  ! 
The  earth  is  your  place  of  penance, 

then  ; 
And  what  will  it  prove?    I  desire 

your  good, 
But,  plot  as  I  may,  I  can  find  no 

way 
How  a  blow  should  fall,  such  as  falls 

on  men, 

Nor  prove  too  much  for  your  woman- 
hood. 


It  will  come,  I  suspect,  at  the  end  of 

life, 
"When  you  walk  alone,  and  review 

the  past ; 
And  I,  who  so  long  shall  have  done 

with  strife, 
And  journeyed  my  stage  and  earned 

my  wage 
And   retired   as   was   right,  —  I   am 

called  at  last 

"When  the  Devil  stabs  you,  to  lend 
the  knife. 


He   stabs  for  the  minute  of  trivial 

wrong, 

Nor  the   other  hours   are  able  to 
save, 


The  happy,  that  lasted  my  whole  lile 

long: 
For  a  promise  broke,  not  for  first 

words  spoke, 

The  true,  the  only,  that  turn  my  grave 
To  a  blaze  of  joy  and  a  crash  of  song. 


Witness  beforehand  !    Off  I  trip 
On  a  safe    path    gay  through   the 

flowers  you  flung : 

My  very  name  made  great  by  your  lip; 
And  my  heart  aglow  with  the  good 

I  know 
Of  a  perfect  year  when  we  both  were 

young, 
And  I  tasted  the  angels'  fellowship. 

XII. 

And  witness,  moreover  .  .  .  Ah,  but 

wait ! 
I  spy  the  loop  whence  an  arrow 

shoots  ! 
It   may  be    for  yourself,  when  you 

meditate, 
That  you    grieve  —  for  slain    ruth, 

murdered  truth  : 
"  Though  falsehood  escape  in  the  end, 

what  boots  ? 

How  truth  would  have  triumphed  !  " 
—  you  sigh  too  late. 


Ay,  who  would  have  triumphed  like 

you,  I  say  ! 
Well,  it  is  lost  now  ;  well,  you  must 

bear, 

Abide  and  grow  fit  for  a  better  day. 
You  should  hardly  grudge,  could  I 

be  your  judge ! 

But  hush !    For  you,  can  be  no  de- 
spair : 

There's  amends  :  'tis  a  secret ;  hope 
and  pray  ! 


For  I  was   true  at  least  —  oh,  true 

enough  ! 
And,  Dear,  truth  is  not  as  good  as 

it  seems ! 
Commend   me   to   conscience !    Idle 

stuff! 
Much  help  is  in  mine,  as  I  mope  and 

pine, 
And  skulk  through  day,  and  scowl  in 

my  dreams 

At  my  swan's  obtaining  the  crow'? 
rebuff. 


TOO  LATE. 


Men  tell  me  of  truth  now  —  "  False  !  " 

I  cry  : 
Of  beauty  —  "A  mask,  friend  !  Look 

beneath ! " 
We  take  our  own  method,  the  Devil 

and  I, 
With    pleasant  and  fair  and  wise 

and  rare  : 
And  the  best  we  wish  to  what  lives, 

is  —  death  ; 

Which  even  in  wishing,  perhaps  we 
lie  ! 

XVI. 

Far  better  commit  a  fault  and  have 

done  — 
As     you,     Dear  !  —  forever  :      and 

choose  the  pure, 
And  look  where  the  healing  waters 

run, 
And  strive  and  strain  to  be  good 

again, 

And  a  place  in  the  other  world  in- 
sure, 

All  glass  and  gold,  with  God  for  its 
sun. 

XVII. 

Misery  !    What  shall  I  say  or  do  ? 
I  cannot  advise,  or,  at  least,  per- 
suade. 
Most  like,  you  are  glad  you  deceived 

me  —  rue 
No  whit  of  the  wrong  :  you  endured 

too  long, 

Have  done  no  evil  and  want  no  aid, 
Will  live  the  old  life  out  and  chance 
the  new. 

xvm. 
And  your  sentence  is  written  all  the 

same, 

And  I  can  do  nothing,  —  pray,  per- 
haps : 
But  somehow  the  world  pursues  its 

game,  — 
If  I  pray,  if  I  curse,—  for  better  or 

worse  : 
And  my  faith  is  torn  to  a  thousand 

scraps, 

And  my  heart  feels  ice  while  my 
words  breathe  flame. 

XIX. 

Dear,  I  look  from  my  hiding-place. 
Are  you  still  so  fair?    Have  you 
still  the  eyes  ? 


Be  happy  !    Add  but  the  other  grace, 
Be   good !     Why    want   what   the 

angels  vaunt  ? 

I  knew  you  once  :  but  in  Paradise, 
If  we  meet,  I  will  pass  nor  turn 
my  face. 


TOO  LATE. 


HERE  was  I  with  my  arm  and  heart 
And  brain,  all  yours  for  a  word,  a 

want 
Put  into  a  look — just  a  look,  your 

part,  — 
While  mine,  to  repay  it  ...  vainest 

vaunt, 
Were  the  woman,  that's  dead,  alive 

to  hear, 
Had  her  lover,  that's   lost,  love's 

proof  to  show  ! 
But  I  cannot  show  it ;  you  cannot 

speak 
From  the  churchyard  neither,  miles 

removed, 
Though  I  feel  by  a  pulse  within  my 

cheek, 
Which  stabs   and   stops,  that  th& 

woman  I  loved 
Needs  help  in  her  grave  and  finds 

none  near, 

Wants  warmth  from  the  heart  which 
sends  it  —  so  ! 


Did  I  speak  once  angrily,  all  the  drear 

days 
You  lived,  you  woman  I  loved  so 

well, 
Who  married  the  other?    Blame  or 

praise, 
Where  was  the  use   then  ?    Time 

would  tell, 

And  the  end  declare  what  man  for  you, 
W^at  woman  for  me  was  the  choice 

of  God. 
But,  Edith  dead  !  no  doubting  more  ! 

I  used  to  sit  and  look  at  my  life 
As  it  rippled  and  ran  till,  right  before, 
A  great  stone  stopped  it :  oh,  the 

strife 
Of  waves  at  the   stone   some  devil 

threw 

In  my  life's  mklcurrent,  thwarting 
God! 


142 


TOO  LATE. 


But   either   I   thought,   "  They  may 

churn  and  chide 
A  while,  —  my  waves  which  came 

for  their  joy 
And  found  this  horrible  stone  full- 
tide  : 
Yet   I   see  just   a   thread   escape, 

deploy 
Through  the  evening-country,   silent 

and  safe, 
And  it  suffers  no  more  till  it  finds 

the  sea." 
Or  else  I  would  think, "  Perhaps  some 

night 

When  new  things  happen,  a  meteor- 
ball 
May  slip  through  the  sky  in  a  line  of 

light, 

And  earth  breathe  hard,  and  land- 
marks fall, 
And  my  waves  no  longer  champ  nor 

chafe, 

Since  a  stone  will  have  rolled  from 
its  place  :  let  be  !  " 


But,   dead  !    All's  done  with  :  wait 

who  may, 
Watch  and  wear  and  wonder  who 

will. 

Oh,  my  whole  life  that  ends  to-day  ! 
Oh,  my  soul's  sentence,  sounding 

still, 
"  The  woman  is  dead,  that  was  none 

of  his  ; 
And  the  man,  that  was  none  of  hers, 

may  go  !  " 

There's  only  the  past  left :  worry  that ! 
Wreak,  like  a  bull,  on  the  empty 

coat, 

Rage,  its  late  wearer  is  laughing  at ! 
Tear   the    collar   to    rags,    having 

missed  his  throat ; 
Strike  stupidly  on  —  "  This,  this,  and 

this. 

Where  I  would  that  a  bosom  re- 
ceived the  blow ! " 


t  ought  to  have  done  more  :  once  my 

speech 
And  once  your  answer,  and  there, 

the  end, 
And  Edith   was  henceforth   out   of 

reach  ! 

Why,  men  do  more  to  deserve  a 
friend. 


Be  rid  of  a  foe,  get  rich,  grow  wise, 
Nor,  folding  their  arms,  stare  fate  in 

the  face. 
Why,  better  even  have  burst  like  a 

thief 
And  borne  you  away  to  a  rock  for 

us  two, 
In  a  moment's  horror,  bright,  bloody, 

and  brief, 
Then  changed  to  myself  again  —  "  I 

slew 
Myself    in   that   moment ;   a  ruffian 

lies 

Somewhere  :  your  slave,  see,  born 
in  his  place  !  " 


What   did    the   other   do?    You   be 
i 


Look  at  us,   Edith !    Here  are  we 

both! 
Give   him   his   six   whole   years :    I 

grudge 
None  of  the  life  with  you,  nay.  I 

loathe 
Myself  that  I  grudged  his  start  in 

advance 
Of   me   who    could   overtake   and 

pass. 
But,  as  if  he   loved  vou  !     No,  not 

he, 
Nor  any  one  else  in  the  world,  'tis 

plain  : 

Who  ever  heard  that  another,  free 
As  I,  young,  prosperous,  sound,  and 

sane, 
Poured  life  out,  proffered  it— "Half 

a  glance 

Of  those  eyes  of  yours  and  I  drop 
the  glass  !  " 


Handsome,    were    you?    'Tis    more 

than  they  held, 
More  than  they  said  ;  I  was  'ware 

and  watched : 

I  was  the  'scapegrace,  this  rat  belled 
The  cat,  this  fool  got  his  whiskers 

scratched  : 
The    others?     No    head    that    was 

turned,  no  heart 

Broken,  my  lady,  assure  yourself  ! 
Each  soon  made  his  mind  up  ;  so  and 

so 

Married  a  dancer,  such  and  such 
Stole  his  friend's  wife,  stagnated  slow, 
Or   maundered,    unable   to   do   as 
much. 


TOO  LATE. 


143 


And  muttered  of  peace  where  he  had 

no  part : 

While,  hid  in  the  closet,  laid  on  the 
shelf,  — 


On  the  whole,  you  were  let  alone,  I 

think  ! 
So,  you  looked  to  the  other,  who 

acquiesced ; 
My    rival,    the    proud    man, —  prize 

your  pink 
Of   poets  !    A  poet  he  was  !    I've 

guessed  : 
He  rhymed  you  his  rubbish  nobody 

read, 
Loved  yon  and  doved  you  —  did  not 

I  laugh  ! 
There   was  a   prize !    But  we   both 

were  tried. 
O  heart   of   mine,   marked   broad 

with  her  mark, 

Tekel,  found  wanting,  set  aside, 
Scorned !    See,  I  bleed  these  tears 

in  the  dark 
Till  comfort  come   and  the   last  be 

bled : 
He  ?    He  is  tagging  your  epitaph. 


If  it  would  only  come  over  again  ! 
—  Time  to  be  patient  with  me,  and 

probe 
This    heart   till   you   punctured   the 

proper  vein, 
Just  to  learn  what  blood  is  :  twitch 

the  robe 
From  that  blank  lay-figure  your  fancy 

draped, 
Prick  the  leathern  heart  till  the  — 

verses  spirt ! 
And   late    it   was    easy ;    late,    you 

walked 
Where  a  friend  might  meet  you  ; 

Edith's  name 
Arose  to  one's  lip  if  one  laughed  or 

talked  ; 
If  I  heard  good  news,  you  heard  the 

same  ; 
When  I  woke,  I  knew  that  your  breath 

escaped  ; 

I  could  bide  my  time,  keep  alive, 
alert. 

x. 
A.nd  alive  I  shall  keep  and  long,  you 

will  see  ! 

I  knew  a  man,  was  kicked  like  a 
dog 


From  gutter  to  cesspool ;  what  cared 

he 
So  long  as  he  picked  from  the  filth 

his  prog  ? 

He  saw  youth,  beauty,  and  genius  die, 
And  jollily  lived  to  his  hundredth 

year. 
But  I  will  live  otherwise  :    none  of 

such  life  ! 

At  once  I  begin  as  I  mean  to  end. 
Go  on  with  the  world,  get  gold  in  its 

strife, 

Give  your  spouse  the  slip,  and  be- 
tray your  friend  ! 
There  are  two  who  decline,  a  woman 

and  I, 

And  enjoy  our  death  in  the  dark- 
ness here. 


I  liked  that  way  you  had  with  your 

curls 

Wound  to  a  ball  in  a  net  behind  : 
Your  cheek  was  chaste  as  a  Quaker- 
girl's, 
And  your  mouth  —  there  was  never, 

to  my  mind, 
Such  a  funny  mouth,  for  it  would  not 

shut ; 
And  the  dented  chin  too  —  what  a 

chin  ! 
There  were  certain  ways  when  you 

spoke,  some  words 
That  you  know  you  never  could  pro- 
nounce : 

You  were  thin,  however  ;  like  a  bird's 
Your  hand    seemed  —  some  would 

say,  the  pounce 

Of  a  scaly-footed  hawk  —  all  but ! 
The  world  was  right  when  it  called 
you  thin. 


But  I  turn  my  back  on  the  world  :  I 

take 
Your  hand,  and  kneel,  and  lay  to 

my  lips. 

Bid  me  live,  Edith  !    Let  me  slake 
Thirst  at  your  presence  !    Fear  no 

slips ! 
'Tis  your  slave  shall  pay,  while  his 

soul  endures, 

Full  due,  love's  whole  debt,  sum- 
mum  jux. 
My  queen  shall  have  high  observance, 

planned 

Courtship   made   perfect,  no  least 
line 


BIFURCATION. 


Crossed  without  warrant.    There  you 

stand, 
"Warm  too,  and  white  too  :  would 

this  wine 
Had  washed   all  over  that  body  of 

yours, 

Ere  I  drank  it,  and  you  down  with 
it,  thus  ! 


BIFURCATION. 

WE  were  two  lovers  ;   let  me  lie  by 

her, 
My  tomb  beside  her  tomb.     On  hers 

inscribe  — 
"  I  loved  him  ;   but  my  reason  bade 

prefer 
Duty  to   love,  reject   the   tempter's 

bribe 

Of  rose  and  lily  when  each  path  di- 
verged, 
And  either  I  must  pace  to  life's  far 

end 
As  love  should  lead  me,  or,  as  duty 

urged, 
Plod  the  worn  causeway  arm  in  arm 

with  friend. 
So,  truth  turned  falsehood  :  '  How  I 

loathe  a  flower, 

How  prize  the  pavement ! '  still  ca- 
ressed his  ear  — 
The  deafish  friend's  —  through  life's 

day,  hour  by  hour. 
As    he    laughed    (coughing)  '  Ay,    it 

would  appear ! ' 
But  deep  within  my  heart  of  hearts 

there  hid 

Ever  the  confidence,  amends  for  all, 
That    heaven    repairs    what    wrong 

earth's  journey  did, 
When  love  from  life-long  exile  conies 

at  call. 
Duty  and  love,  one  broad  way,  were 

the  best  — 
Who  doubts  ?    But  one  or  other  was 

to  choose. 
I  chose  the  darkling  half,  and  wait 

the  rest 
In  that  new  world  where  light  and 

darkness  fuse." 

Inscribe    on    mine  —  "I    loved  her: 

love's  track  lay 
O'er  sand  and  pebble,  as  all  travellers 

know. 


Duty  led  through  a  smiling  country, 

gay 
With  greensward  where  the  rose  and 

lily  blow. 
'  Our    roads    are    diverse  :    farewell, 

love  ! '  said  she  : 

'  'Tis  duty  I  abide  by  :  homely  sward 
And  not  the  rock-rough  picturesque 

for  me  ! 
Above,  where  both  roads  join,  I  wait 

reward. 

Be  you  as  constant  to  the  path  where- 
on 
I  leave  you  planted  ! '    But  man  needs 

must  move, 
Keep    moving  —  whither,    when    the 

star  is  gone 
Whereby  he  steps  secure  nor  strays 

from  love  ? 

No  stone  but  I  was  tripped  by,  stum- 
bling-block 
But  brought  me  to  confusion.    Where 

I  fell, 
There  I  lay  flat,  if  moss  disguised  tLii 

rock  : 
Thence,  if  flint  pierced,  I  rose  and 

cried,  '  All's  well ! 
Duty  be  mine  to  tread  in  that  high 

sphere 
Where  love  from  duty  ne'er  disparts, 

I  trust, 
And   two   halves  make  that  whole, 

whereof  —  since  here 
One  must  suffice  a  man  —  why,  this 

one  must ! ' ' 

Inscribe  each  tomb  thus  :  then,  some 

sage  acquaint 
The    simple — which    holds    sinner, 

which  holds  saint ! 


A   LIKENESS. 

SOME  people  hang  portraits  up 
In  a  room  where  they  dine  or  sup  : 
And  the  wife  clinks  tea-things  under, 
And  her  cousin,  he  stirs  his  cup, 
Asks,  "  Who  was  the  lady,  I  won- 
der?"— 

"  'Tis  a  daub  John  bought  at  a  sale," 
Quoth    the    wife,  —  looks    black    as 

thunder. 

What  a  shade  beneath  her  nose  ! 
Snuff-taking,  I  suppose,"  — 
Adds  the  cousin,  while  John's  corns 
ail. 


A  Likeness.  —  Page  144. 


MAY  AND   DEATH, 


145 


Or  else,  there's  no  wife  in  the  case, 
But  the  portrait's  queen  of  the  place, 
Alone  mid  the  other  spoils 
Of  youth,  —  tnasks,  gloves,  and  foils, 
And    pipe-sticks,    rose,    cherry-tree, 

jasmine, 

And    the  long    whip,    the    tandem- 
lasher, 
And  the  cast  from  a  fist  ("  not,  alas  ! 

mine, 

But  my  master's,  the  Tipton  Slasher  ") 
And  the  cards  where  pistol-balls  mark 

ace, 

And  a  satin  shoe  used  for  a  cigar- 
case, 
And  the  chamois-horns  ("  shot  in  the 

Chablais  ") 
And    prints  —  Rarey    drumming    on 

Cruiser, 
And     Sayers,     our     champion,    the 

bruiser, 

And  the  little  edition  of  Rabelais  : 
Where  a  friend,  with  both  hands  in 

his  pockets 

May  saunter  up  close  to  examine  it, 
And  remark    a  good  deal    of    Jane 

Lamb  in  it, 
"But  the  e3'es  are  half  out  of  their 

sockets ; 
That    hair's  not  so  bad,  where  the 

gloss  is, 
But  they've  made  the  girl's  nose  a 

proboscis : 
Jane  Lamb,  that  we  danced  with  at 

Vichy  ! 
What,  is  not  she  Jane?    Then,  who 

is  she?'' 

All  that  I  own  is  a  print, 
An  etching,  a  mezzotint ; 
'Tis  a  study,  a  fancy,  a  fiction, 
Yet  a  fact  (take  my  conviction), 
Because  it  has  more  than  a  hint 
Of  a  certain  face,  I  never 
Saw  elsewhere  touch  or  trace  of 
In  women  I've  seen  the  face  of  : 
Just  an  etching,  and,  so  far,  clever. 

I  keep  my  prints  an  imbroglio, 
Fifty  in  one  portfolio 
When  somebody  tries  my  claret, 
We  turn  round  chairs  to  the  fire, 
Chirp  over  days  in  a  garret, 
Chuckle  o'er  increase  of  salary, 
Taste  the  good  fruits  of  our  leisure, 
Talk  about  pencil  and  lyrr>, 
And  the  National  Portrait  Gallery  : 
Then  I  exhibit  mv  treasure. 


After  we've  turned  over  twenty, 

And  the  debt  of  wonder  my  crony 
'owes 

Is  paid  to  my  Marc  Antonios, 

He  stops  me—  "  Fcstina  lente! 

What's  that  sweet  thing  there,  the 
etching?" 

How  my  waistcoat  strings  want 
stretching, 

How  my  cheeks  grow  red  as  toma- 
toes, 

How  my  heart  leaps  !  But  hearts 
after  leaps,  ache. 

"  By  the  by,  you  must  take,  for  a 

keepsake, 

That  other,  you  praised,  of  Volpato's." 
The  fool  !  would  he  try  a  flight  far- 
ther and  say  — 

He  never  saw,  never  before  to-day, 
What  was  able  to  take  his    breath 

away, 
A  face  to  lose  youth  for,  to  occupy 

age 
With  the  dream  of,  meet  death  with,  — 

why,  I'll  not  engage 
But  that,  half  in  a  rapture  and  half  in 

a  rage, 
I  should  toss  him  the  thing's  self  — 

"  'Tis  only  a  duplicate, 
A  thing  of   no  value !     Take    it,  I 

supplicate ! " 


MAY   AND   DEATH. 


I  WISH  that  when  you  died  last  May, 
Charles,  there  had  died  along  with 

you 
Three    parts    of    spring's    delightful 

things  ; 
Ay,  and,  for  me,  the  fourth  part  too 


A  foolish  thought,  and  %vorse,  perhaps! 
There    must    be    many    a    pair    of 

friends 

Who,  arm  in  arm,  deserve  the  warm 
Moon-births  and  the  long  evening- 
ends. 

in. 

So,  for  their  sake,  be  May  still  May  ! 
Let  their  new  time,  as  mine  of  old, 
Do  all  it  did  for  me  :  I  bid 
Sweet   sights    and    sounds    throng 
manifold. 


x"l  —  I  r'     '                                                    c  9  1  —  h* 

f»         146                                             A   FORGIVENESS. 

IV. 

One  day,  perhaps  such  song  so  knit 

Only,  one  little  sight,  one  plant, 
Woods  have  in  May,  that  starts  up 

the  nerve 
That  work  grew  play  and  vanished. 

"  I  deserve 

£^1  cell 

Save  a  sole  streak  which,  so  to  speak, 

Haply  my  heaven  an  hour  before  the        **  ^ 

Is  spring's  blood,  spilt  its  leaves  be- 
tween, — 

time  !  " 
I  laughed,  as  silverly  the  deckhouse- 

chime 

V. 

Surprised  me  passing  through  the  pos- 

That,  they   might   spare  ;    a  certain 
wood 

tern  gate 
—  Not    the    main    entry  where    the 

Might  miss  the   plant  ;   their  loss 

menials  wait 

were  small  : 

And  wonder  why  the  world's  affairs 

But    I,  —  whene'er    the    leaf    grows 

allow 

there, 

The    master    sudden    leisure.    That 

Its   drop   comes   from    my   heart, 
that's  all. 

was  how 
I  took   the    private   garden-way   for 

once. 

Forth  from  the  alcove,  I  saw  start, 
ensconce 

A    FORGIVEXESS. 

Himself  behind  the  porphyry  vase,  a 

man. 

I  AM  indeed  the  personage  you  know. 

As    for   my    wife,  —  what    happened 

My  fancies  in  the  natural  order  ran  : 

long  ago  — 

"  A  spy,  —  perhaps  a  foe  in  ambus- 

You have  a  right  to  question  me,  as  I 

cade,  — 

Am  bound  to  answer. 

A  thief,  —  more  like,  a  sweetheart  of 

some  maid 

("  Son,  a  fit  reply  !  " 

Who  pitched  on  the  alcove  for  tryst 

The  monk  half  spoke,   half   ground 

perhaps." 

through  his  clinched  teeth, 
At     the     confession-grate     I    knelt 

"  Stand  there  !  "    I  bid. 

beneath.) 

"Whereat  my  man  but  wraps 

Thus    then   all    happened,    Father  ! 

His  face  the  closelier  with  uplifted 

Power  and  place 

arm 

I  had  as  still  I  have.    I  ran   life's 

Whereon  the  cloak   lies,  strikes   in 

race, 

blind  alarm 

With  the  whole  world  to  see,  as  only 

This  and  that  pedestal  as,  —  stretch 

strains 

and  stoop,  — 

His  strength  some  athlete  whose  pro- 

Now in,  now  out  of  sight,  he  thrids 

digious  gains 

the  group 

Of  good   appal   him  :   happy  to   ex- 

Of statues,  marble  god  and  goddess 

cess,  — 

ranged 

Work   freely   done    should    balance 

Each  side  the  pathway,  till  the  gate's 

happiness 
Fully  enjoyed  ;   and,  since   beneath 

exchanged 
For    safety  :    one    step    thence,    the 

my  roof 

street,  you  know  ! 

Housed  she  who  made  home  heaven, 

in  heaven's  behoof 

Thus  far  I  followed  with  my  gaze 

I  went  forth  every  day,  and  all  day 

Then,  slow, 

long 

Near  on  admiringly,  I  breathed  again, 

Worked  for  the  world.    Look,  how 

And  —  back  to  that  last  fancy  of  the           f 

the  laborer's  song 

train  — 

1 

Ch«ers    him  !    Thus   sang    my  soul, 

"A  danger  risked  for  hope  of  just  a 

at  each  sharp  throe 

word 

Of  laboring  flesh  and  blood  —  "She 

With—  which  of  all  my  nest  may  be 

loves  me  so  !  " 

the  bird 

V      V>                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      tj     \ 

^•LL\  6-+  5                                                                                                                                                   6  {—  3  I_L_K 

A   FORGIVENESS. 


147 


This  poaclier  coverts  for  her  plumage, 

pray  ? 
Carmen  ?   Juana  ?    Carmen  seems  too 

gay 
For  such  adventure,  while   Juana's 

grave 
—  Would  scorn  the  folly.    I  applaud 

the  knave ! 
He  had  the  eye,  could  single  from 

my  hrood 
His  proper  tiedgeling  !  " 

As  I  turned,  there  stood 
In   face   of  me,  my  wife    stone-still 

stone-white. 
Whether  one  bound  had  brought  her, 

—  at  first  sight 

Of  what  she  judged  the  encounter, 
sure  to  be 

Next  moment,  of  the  venturous  man 
and  me,  — 

Brought  her  to  clutch  and  keep  me 
from  my  prey  : 

Whether  impelled  because  her  death 
no  day 

Could  come  so  absolutely  opportune 

As  now  at  joy's  height,  like  a  year  in 
June 

Stayed  at  the  fall  of  its  first  ripened 
rose  ; 

Or  whether  hungry  for  iny  hate  — 
who  knows?  — 

Eager  to  end  an  irksome  lie,  and  taste 

Our  tingling  true  relation,  hate  em- 
braced 

By  hate  one  naked  moment  :  —  any- 
how 

There  stone-still  stone-white  stood 
my  wife,  but  now 

The  woman  who  made  heaven  within 
my  house. 

Ay,  she  who  faced  me  was  my  very 
spouse 

As  well  as  love  —  you  are  to  recollect ! 

"  Stay  !  "  she  said.    "  Keep  at  least 

one  soul  unspecked 
With  crime,  that's  spotless  hitherto 

—  your  own  ! 

Kill  me  who  court  the  blessing,  who 

alone 
Was,  am,  and  shall  be  guilty,  first  to 

last ! 
The  man  lay  helpless  in  the  toils  I 

cast 
About   him,  helpless   as    the  statue 

there 
Against  that  strangling  bell-flower's 

bondage :  tear 


Away  and  tread  to  dust  the  para- 
site, 

But  do  the  passive  marble  no  despite  ! 
I  love  him  as  I  hate  you.    Kill  me  ! 

Strike 

At  one  blow  both  infinitudes  alike 
Out  of    existence  —  hate    and    love  ! 

WThence  love  ? 
That's  safe  inside  my  heart,  nor  will 

remove 
For  any  searching  of   your  steel,  I 

think. 
Whence  hate  ?    The  secret  lay  on  lip, 

at  brink 
Of  speech,  in  one  fierce  tremble  to 

escape, 
At  every  form  wherein  your  love  took 

shape, 

At  each  new  provocation  of  your  Hss. 
Kill  me !  " 

We  went  in. 

Next  day  after  this 
I  felt  as  if  the  speech  might  come. 

spoke  — 
Easily,  after  all. 

"  The  lifted  cloak 

Was  screen  sufficient :  I  concern  my- 
self 

Hardly  with  laying  hands  on  who  for 
pelf  — 

Whate'er  the  ignoble  kind  —  may 
prowl  and  brave 

Cuffing  and  kicking  proper  to  a  knave 

Detected  by  my  household's  vigilance. 

Enough  of  such  !  As  for  my  love-ro- 
mance — 

I,  like  our  good  Hidalgo,  rub  my 
eyes 

And  wake  and  wonder  how  the  film 
could  rise 

Which  changed  for  me  a  barber's 
basin  straight 

Into  —  Mambrino's  helm  ?    I  hesitate 

Nowise  to  say  —  God's  sacramental 
cup ! 

Why  should  I  blame  the  brass  which, 
burnished  up, 

Will  blaze,  to  all  but  me,  as  good  as 
gold  ? 

To  me  —  a  warning  I  was  overbold 

In  judging  metals.  The  Hidalgo 
waked 

Only  to  die,  if  I  remember,  —staked 

His  life  upon  the  basin's  worth,  and 
lost  : 

While  I  confess  torpidity  at  moat 


148 


.4  FORGIVENESS. 


In  here  and  there  a  limb  ;  but,  lame 
and  halt, 

Still  should  I  work  on,  still  repair  my 
fault 

Ere  I  took  rest  in  death,  —  no  fear  at 
all! 

Now,  work  —  no  word  before  the  cur- 
tain fall !  " 

The  "  curtain  "  ?    That  of  death  on 

life,  I  meant : 
My  "word"  permissible   in  death's 

event, 
Would  be  —  truth,  soul  to  soul  ;   for, 

otherwise, 
Day  by  day,  three  years  long,  there 

had  to  rise 
And,  night  by  night,  to  fall  upon  our 

stage  — 

Ours,  doomed  to  public  play  by  heri- 
tage — 
Another    curtain,   when    the    world, 

perforce 

Our  critical  assembly,  in  due  course 
Came    and    went,    witnessing,    gave 

praise  or  blame 
To  art-mimetic.      It  had  spoiled  the 

game 
If,  suffered    to   set  foot    behind  our 

scene, 

he  world  had  witnessed  how  stage- 
king  and  queen, 

Gallant  and  lady,  but  a  minute  since 
Enarming    each    the    other,    would 

evince 

Nr,  sign  of  recognition  as  they  took 
Ills  way  and  her  way  to  whatever  nook 
Waited   them  in  the  darkness  either 

side 
Of   that   bright   stage   where    lately 

groom  and  bride 

Had  fired  the  audience  to  a  frenzy-tit 
Of  sympathetic  rapture  —  every  whit 
Earned  as  the  curtain  fell  on  her  and 

me, 

—  Actors.    Three  whole  years,  noth- 
ing was  to  see 
But    calm    and    concord :    where    a 

speech  was  due 
There  came  the  speech  ;  when  smiles 

were  wanted  too 
Smiles  were  as  ready.    In  a  place  like 

mine, 
Where    foreign    and    domestic    cares 

combine, 
There's  audience  every  day  and  all 

day  long ; 
But    finally   the    last    of   the    whole 

throng 


Who  linger  lets  one  see  his  back.   For 

her  — 

Why,  liberty  and  liking  :  I  aver, 
Liking    and    liberty!      For    me  —  I 

breathed, 
Let  my  face  rest  from  every  wrinkle 

wreathed 
Smile-like  about  the  mouth,  unlearned 

my  task 
Of    personation    till    next    day  bade 

mask, 
And    quietly  betook    me    from    that 

world' 
To  the  real  world,  not  pageant :  there 

unfurled 
In  work,  its  wings,  my  soul,  the  fretted 

power. 
Three  years  I  worked,  each  minute  of 

each  hour 
Not  claimed  by  acting  :  —  work  I  may 

dispense 

With  talk  about,  since  work  in  evi- 
dence, 
Perhaps  in   history  ;  who  knows  or 

cares  ? 

After  three  years,  this  way,  all  una- 
wares, 

Out  acting  ended.    She  and  I,  at  close 

Of  a  loud  night-feast,  led,  between  two 
rows 

Of  bending  male  and  female  loyalty, 

Our  lord    the    king   down  staircase, 
while,  held  high 

At  arm's  length  did  the  twisted  tapers' 
flare 

Herald  his  passage  from  our  palace 
where 

Such  visiting  left  glory  evermore. 

Again  the  ascent  in  public,  till  at  door 

As  we  two  stood  by  the  saloon  —  now 
blank 

And  disencumbered  of  its  guests  — 
there  .«a,nk 

A  whisper  in  my  ear,  so  low  and  yet 

So  unmistakable  ! 

"  I  half  forget 

The  chamber  you  repair  to,  and  I  want 

Occasion  for  one  short  word  —  if  you 
grant 

That  grace  —  within  a  certain  room 
you  called 

Our  '  Study,'  for  you  wrote  there  while 
I  scrawled 

Some  paper  full  of  faces  for  my  sport. 

That  room  I  can  remember.    Just  one 
short 

Word  with  you  there,  for  the  remem- 
brance' sake  !  " 


A    FORGIVENESS. 


149 


"  Follow  me  thither  !  "  I  replied. 

We  break 
The  gloom  a  little,  as  with  guiding 

lamp 
I  lead   the   way,  leave  warmth  and 

cheer,  liy  damp, 

Blind,  disused,  serpentining  ways  afar 
From  where  the  habitable  chambers 

are, — 
Ascend,    descend      stairs    tunnelled 

through  the  stone,  — 
Always  in  silence,  —  till  I  reach  the 

'lone 

Chamber  sepulchred  for  my  very  own 
Out  of   the  palace-quarry.    When  a 

boy, 
Here  was  my  fortress,  stronghold  from 

annoy, 

Proof-positive  of  ownership  ;  in  youth 
I  garnered  up  my  gleanings  here  — 

uncouth 
But  precious  relics  of  vain  hopes,  vain 

fears  ; 

Finally,  this  became  in  after-years 
My  closet  of  intrenchment  to  with- 
stand 

Invasion  of  the  foe  on  every  hand  — 
The  multifarious  herd  in  bower  and 

hall, 
State-room,  — rooms    whatsoe'er    the 

style,  which  call 

On  masters  to  be  mindful  that,  before 
Men,  they  must  look  like  men  and 

something  more. 
Here,  —  when  our  lord  the  king's  be- 

stowment  ceased 

To  deck  me  on  the  day  that,  golden- 
fleeced, 
I  touched  ambition's  height,  —  'twas 

here,  released 
From  glory  (always  symbolled  by  a 

chain  !) 

No  sobner  was  I  privileged  to  gain 
My  secret  domicile  than  glad  I  flung 
That  last  toy  on  the    table  —  gazed 

where  hung 
On  hook  my  father's  gift,  the  arque- 

buss  — 
And  asked  myself  "  Shall  I  envisage 

thus 
The  new  prize  and    the    old    prize, 

when  I  reach 
Another    year's     experience?  —  own 

that  each 
Equalled  advantage  —  sportsman's  — 

statesman's  tool  ?     . 
That  brought  me  down  an  eagle,  this 

—  a  fool ! " 


Into  which  room  on  entry,  I  set  down 
The  lamp,  and    turning  saw  whose 

rustled  gown 
Had  told  me  my  wife  followed,  pace 

for  pace. 
Each  of  us  looked  the  other  in  the 

face. 
She    spoke.      "  Since    I    could    die 


(To  explain 
Why  that  first  struck  me,  know  — 

not  once  again 
Since  the  adventure  at  the  porphyry's 

edge 
Three  years  before,  which  sundered 

like  a  wedge 
Her  soul  from  mine,  —  though  daily, 

smile  to  smile, 
We  stood  before  the  public,  —  all  the 

while 
Not  once  had  I  distinguished,  in  that 

face 
I  paid    observance    to,  the    faintest 

trace 
Of  feature  more  than  requisite    for 

eyes 

To  do  their  duty  by  and  recognize  : 
So  did  I  force  mine  to  obey  my  will 
And  pry  no  farther.  There  exists 

such  skill, — 
Those    know    who    need    it.     What 

physician  shrinks 
From  needful  contact  with  a  corpse  ? 

He  drinks 

No  plague  so  long  as  thirst  for  knowl- 
edge, —  not 
An  idler  impulse,  —  prompts  inquiry. 

What, 
And  will  you  disbelieve  in  power  to 

bid 
Our  spirit  back  to  bounds,  as  though 

we  chid 
A  child  from  scrutiny  that's  just  and 

right 

In  manhood  ?     Sense,  not  soul,  ac- 
complished sight, 

Reported  daily  she  it  was  —  not  how 
Nor  why  a  change  had  come  to  cheek 

and  brow.) 

"  Since  I  could  die  now  of  the  truth 

concealed, 
Yet  dare  not,  must  not  die,  —  so  seems 

revealed 
The  Virgin's  mind  to  me,  —  for  death 

means  peace, 
Wherein  no  lawful  part  have  I,  whose 

lease 


150 


A   FORGIVENESS. 


Of  life    and   punishment    the    truth 

avowed 
May  haply  lengthen,  —  let  me  push 

the  shroud 

Away,  that  steals  to  muffle  ere  is  just 
My  penance-fire  in  snow  !    I  dare  —  I 

must 
Live,  by  avowal  of  the  truth  —  this 

truth  — 
I  loved  you !    Thanks  for  the  fresh 

serpent's  tooth 
That,  by  a  prompt  new  pang  more 

exquisite 
Than  all  preceding   torture,   proves 

me  right ! 
I  loved  you  yet  I  lost  you !    May  I 

go 

Burn  to  the  ashes,  now  my  shame  you 
know?" 

I  think  there  never  was  such  —  how 
express  ?  — 

Horror  coquetting  with  voluptuous- 
ness, 

As  in  those  arms  of  Eastern  work- 
manship — 

Yataghan,  kandjar,  things  that  rend 
and  rip, 

Gash  rough,  slash  smooth,  help  hate 
so  many  ways, 

Yet  ever  keep  a  beauty  that  betrays 

Love  still  at  work  with  the  artificer 

Throughout  his  quaint  devising.  Why 
prefer, 

Except  for  love's  sake,  that  a  blade 
should  writhe 

And  bicker  like  a  flame  ?  —  now  play 
the  scythe 

As  if  some  broad  neck  tempted,  — 
now  contract 

And  needle  off  into  a  fineness  lacked 

For  just  that  puncture  which  the  heart 
demands  ? 

Then,  such  adornment !  Wherefore 
need  our  hands 

Enclose  not  ivory  alone,  nor  gold 

Roughened  for  use,  but  jewels  ?  Nay, 
behold  ! 

Fancy  my  favorite  —  which  I  seem  to 
"grasp 

While  I  describe  the  luxury.    No  asp 

Is  diapered  more  delicate  round 
throat 

Than  this  below  the  handle  !  These 
denote 

—  These  mazy  lines  meandering,  to 
end 

Only  in  flesh  they  open  —  what  in- 
tend 


They  else  but  water-purlings  —  pale 

contrast 
With    the    life-crimson    where    they 

blend  at  last  ? 
And  mark  the  handle's  dim  pellucid 

green, 
Carved,  the  hard  jadestone,  as  you 

pinch  a  bean, 

Into  a  sort  of  parrot-bird  !    He  pecks 
A    grape-bunch  ;    his  two   eyes    are 

ruby-specks 
Pure  from  the  mine  :  seen  this  way, 

—  glassy  blank, 
But  turn  "them,  —  lo  the  inmost  tire, 

that  shrank 
From  sparkling,  sends  a  red  dart  right 

to  aim  ! 

Why  did  I  choose  such  toys  ?    Per- 
haps the  game 
Of  peaceful  men  is  warlike,  just  as 

men 
War-wearied  get  amusement  from  that 

pen 
And  paper  we  grow  sick  of — statesfolk 

tired 
Of  merely  (when  such  measures  are 

required) 
Dealing  out  doom  to  people  by  three 

words, 
A  signature  and  seal :  we  play  with 

swords 
Suggestive  of  quick  process.    That  is 

how 
I  came  to  like  the  toys  described  you 

now, 
Store  of  which  glittered  on  the  walls 

and  strewed 

The  table,  even,  while  my  wife  pur- 
sued 
Her  purpose  to  its  ending.    "  Now  you 

know 
This  shame,  my  three  years'  torture, 

let  me  go,  —        ' 
Burn  to    the    very  ashes  !     You  —  I 

lost, 
Yet  you  —  I  loved  !  " 

The  thing  I  pity  most 
In  men  is  —action  prompted  by  sur- 
prise 
Of  anger:  men?  nay,  bulls  —  whose 

onset  lies 
At  instance  of  the  firework  and  the 

goad ! 
Once  the  foe   prostrate,  —  trampling 

once  bestowed,  — 
Prompt  follows  placability,  regret, 
Atonement.    Trust  me,  blood- warmtb 
never  yet 


A   FORGIVENESS. 


151 


Betokened  strong  will  !    As  no  leap 

of  pulse 
Pricked  me,   that  first  time,  so  did 

none  convulse 

My  veins  at  this  occasion  for  resolve. 
Had  that  devolved  which  did  not  then 

devolve 
Upon  me,  I  had  done  —  what  now  to 

do 
Was  quietly  apparent. 

"  Tell  me  who 

The  man  was,  crouching  by  the  por- 
phyry vase  !  " 

"  No,  never !  All  was  folly  in  his 
case, 

All  guilt  in  n\ine.  I  tempted,  he  com- 
plied." 

"  And  yet  you  loved  me  ?  " 

"  Loved  you.    Double-dyed 
In  folly  and  in  guilt,  I  thought  you 

gave 
Your  heart  and  soul  away  from  me  to 

slave 
At  statecraft.     Since  my  rright  in  you 

seemed  lost, 
I  stung  myself  to  teach  you,  to  your 

cost, 
What  you  rejected  could  be  prized 

beyond 
Life,  heaven,  by  the  first  fool  I  threw 

a  fond 
Look  on,  a  fatal  word  to." 

"And  you  still 

Love  me  ?  Do  I  conjecture  well,  or 
ill?" 

"Conjecture  —  well,  or    ill!     I    had 

three  years 
To  spend  in  learning  you." 

"  We  both  are  peers 
In  knowledge,  therefore  :  since  three 

years  are  spent 
Ere  thus  much  of  yourself  /  learn  — 

who  went 
Back    to  the   house,   that  day,   and 

brought  my  mind 
To  bear  upon  your  action  :    uncora- 

bined 
Motive  from  motive,  till  the  dross, 

deprived 

Of  every  purer  particle,  survived 
At  last  in  native  simple  hideousness, 
Utter  contemptibility,  nor  less 


Nor  more.    Contemptibility  —  exempt 

How  could  I,  from  its  proper  due  — 
contempt  ? 

I  have  too  much  despised  you  to  di- 
vert 

My  life  from  its  set  course  by  help  or 
hurt 

Of  your  all-despicable  life  —  perturb 

The  calm  I  work  in,  by — men's 
mouths  to  curb, 

Which  at  such  news  were  clamorous 
enough  — 

Men's  eyes  to  shut  before  my  broid- 
ered  stuff 

With  the  huge  hole  there,  my  em- 
blazoned wall 

Blank  where  a  scutcheon  hung,  —  by, 
worse  than  all, 

Each  day's  procession,  my  paraded  life 

Robbed  and  impoverished  through  the 
wanting  wife 

—  Now  that  my  life  (which  means-- 
my  work)  was  grown 

Eiches  indeed  !  Once,  just  this  worth 
alone 

Seemed  work  to  have,  that  profit 
gained  thereby 

Of  good  and  praise  would  —  how  re- 
wardingly  !  — 

Fall  at  your  feet,  —  a  crown  I  hoped 
to  cast 

Before  your  love,  my  love  should 
crown  at  last. 

No  love  remaining  to"  cast  crown 
before, 

My  love  stopped  work  now  :  but  con- 
tempt the  more 

Impelled  me  task  as  ever  head  and 
hand, 

Because  the  very  fiends  weave  ropes 
of  sand 

Rather  than  taste  pure  hell  in  idle- 
ness. 

Therefore  I  kept  my  memory  down 
by  stress 

Of  daily  work  I  had  no  mind  to  stay 

For  the  world's  wonder  at  the  wife 
away. 

Oh,  it  was  easy  all  of  it,  believe, 

For  I  despised  you  !  But  your  words 
retrieve 

Importantly  the  past.  No  hate  as- 
sumed 

The  mask  of  love  at  any  time  !  There 
gloomed 

A  moment  when  love  took  hate's 
semblance,  urged 

By  causes  you  declare ;  but  love's 
self  purged 


152 


CENCfAJA. 


A. way  a  fancied  wrong  I  did  both  loves 
—  Yours  and  my  own  :  by  no  hate's 

help,  it  proves, 
Purgation  was  attempted.    Then,  you 

rise 
High  by  how  many  a  grade!    I  did 

despise  — 

I  do  but  hate  you.    Let  hate's  pun- 
ishment 
Replace  contempt's!      First  step    to  j 

which  ascent  — 
Write  down  your  own  words  I  re-  ] 

utter  you ! 
/  loved  my  husband  and  I  hated  — 

who 
He  was,  I  took  vp  as  my  first  chance, 

mere 
Mud-ball  to  fliny  and  make  love  foid 

loith .' '     Here 
Lies  paper!  " 

"Would  my  blood  for  ink  suffice!  " 

"  It  may:  this  minion  from  a  land  of 

spice, 
Silk,  feather  —  every  bird  of  jewelled 

breast  — 
This     poniard's     beauty,     ne'er     so 

lightly  prest 
Above  your  heart  there.'*  .  ,  . 

"  Thus?  " 

"  It  flows,  I  see. 
Dip  there  the  point  and  write! " 

"Dictate  to  me! 
Nay,  I  remember." 

And  she  wrote  the  words. 
I  read  them.    Then  —  "  Since  love,  in 

you,  affords 
License  for  hate,  in  me,  to  quench  (I 

say) 
Contempt  —  why,    hate     itself     has 

passed  away 
'In  vengeance  —  foreign  to  contempt. 

Depart 

Peacefully  to  that  death  which  East- 
ern art 
Imbued  this  weapon  with,  if  tales  be 

true! 
Love  will  succeed  to  hate.    I  pardon 

you  — 
Dead  in  our  chamber!  " 

True  as  truth  the  tale. 
She  died  ere  morning;  then,  I  saw 
how  pale 


Her  cheek  was  ere  it  wore  day's  paint- 
disguise. 

And  what  a  hollow  darkened  'neath 
her  eyes, 

Now  that  I  used  iny  own.  She  sleeps 
as  erst 

Beloved,  in  this  your  church:  ay, 
yours! 

Immersed 

In  thought  so  deeply,  Father?  Sad, 
perhaps? 

For  whose  sake,  hers  or  mine  or  his 
who  wraps 

—  Still  plain  I  seem  to  see! — about 
his  head 

The  idle  cloak,  — about  his  heart  (in- 
stead 

Of  cuirass)  some  fond  hope  he  may 
elude 

My  vengeance  in  the  cloister's  soli- 
tude? 

Hardly,  I  think!  As  little  helped 
liis  brow 

The  cloak  then,  Father  —  as  your 
grate  helps  now ! 


CEXCIAJA. 

Ogni  cencio  tuol  entrare  in  bucato.  —  Itai- 
ian  Proverb. 

MAY  I  print,  Shelley,  how  it  came  to 

pass 
That  when  your  Beatrice  seemed  — 

by  lapse 

Of  many  a  long  month  since  her  sen- 
tence fell  — 

Assured  of  pardon  for  the  parricide,  — 
By  intercession  of  stanch  friends,  or, 

say, 
By  certain  pricks  of  conscience  in  the 

Pope, 

Conniver  at  Francesco  Cenci's  guilt, — 
Suddenly   all   things    changed,    and 

Clement  grew 
"  Stern,"   as  you  state,  "  nor  to  be 

moved  nor  bent, 
But  said  these  three  words  coldly, '  She 

must  die; ' 
Subjoining    '  Pardon  ?  Paolo    Santa 

Croce 

Murdered  his  mother  also  yestereve. 
And  he  is  fled:   she  shall  not  flee,  ai 

least ! '  " 


CENCIAJA. 


153 


—  So,  to  the  letter,  sentence  was  ful- 
filled ? 

Shelley,  may  I  condense  verbosity 
That  lies  before  ine,  into  some  few 

words 

Of  English,  and  illustrate  your  superb 
Achievement  by  a  rescued  anecdote, 
No  great  things,  only  new  and  true 

beside  ? 

As  if  some  mere  familiar  of  a  house 
Should  venture  to  accost  the  group 

at  gaze 
Before   its  Titian,    famed    the    wide 

world  through, 

And  supplement  such  pictured  mas- 
terpiece 

By  whisper  "  Searching  in    the   ar- 
chives here, 

I  found  the  reason  of  the  Lady's  fate, 
And  how  by  accident  it  came  to  pass 
She  wears  the  halo  and  displays  the 

palm  : 
Who,  haply,  else  had  never  suffered 

—  no, 

Nor   graced    our  gallery,   by   conse- 
quence." 
Who  loved  the  work  would  like  the 

little  news  : 
WLa  lauds  your  poem  lends  an  ear  to 

me 

Relating  how  the  penalty  was  paid 
By  one  Marchese  dell'  Oriolp,  called 
Onofrio  Santa  Croce  otherwise, 
For  his  complicity  in  matricide 
With   Paolo   his   own    brother,  —  he 

whose  crime 
And  flight  induced  "  those  three  words 

—  She  must  die." 

Thus  I   unroll  you  then  the  manu- 
script. 

"'God's    justice"  —  (of  the    multi- 
plicity 

Of  such  communications  extant  still, 
Recording,   each,    injustice   done    by 

God 

In  person  of  his  Vicar-upon-earth, 
Scarce  one  but  leads  off  to  the  self- 
same tune)  — 

II  God's  justice,  tardy  though  it  prove 

perchance, 

Rests  never  on  the  track  until  it  reach 
Delinquency.    In    proof    I   cite    the 

case 
Of  Paolo  Santa  Croce." 

.  Many  times 

The  youngster,  —having  been  impor- 
tunate 


That  Marchesine  Costanza,  who  re- 

mained 
His  widowed  mother,  should  supplant 

the  heir 

Her  elder  son,  and  substitute  himself 
In  sole  possession  of  her  faculty,  — 
And  meeting  just  as  often  with  re- 

bulf,  — 

Blinded  by  so  exorbitant  a  lust 
Of  gold,  the   youngster  straightway 

tasked  his  wits, 
Casting  about  to  kill  the  lady  —  thus. 

He  first,  to  coyer  his  iniquity, 

Writes  to  Onofrio  Santa  Croce,  then 

Authoritative  lord,  acquainting  him 

Their  mother  was  contamination  — 
wrought 

Like  hell-flrb  iu  the  beauty  of  their 
House 

By  dissoluteness  and  abandonment 

Of  soul  and  body  to  impure  delight. 

Moreover,  since  she  suffered  from 
disease, 

Those  symptoms  which  her  death 
made  manifest 

Hydroptic,  he  affirmed  were  fruits  of 
sin 

About  to  bring  confusion  and  dis- 
grace 

Upon  the  ancient  lineage  and  high 
fame 

O'  the  faidily,  when  published.  Duty- 
bound, 

He  asked  his  brother  —  what  a  son 
should  do  ? 

Which  when  Marchese  dell'  Oriolo 

heard 

By  letter,  being  absent  at  his  laud 
Oriolo,  he  made  answer,  this,  no  more: 
"It    must    behoove   a   son,  —  things 

haply  so,  — 

To  act  as  honor  prompts  a  cavalier 
And  son,    perform    his    duty    to    all 

three, 
Mother  and  brothers"  —here  advice 

broke  off. 

By  which  advice  informed  and  for- 
tified 

As  he  professed  himself  —  as  bound 
by  birth 

To  hear  God's  voice  in  primogeni- 
ture — 

Paolo,  who  kept  his  mother  company 

In  her  domain  Subiaco,  straightway 
dared 

His  whole  enormity  of  enterprise 


154 


CENCIAJA. 


And,  falling  on  her,  stabbed  the  lady 
dead  ; 

Whose  death  demonstrated  her  inno- 
cence. 

And  happened,  —  by  the  way,  —  since 
Jesus  Christ 

Died  to  save  man,  just  sixteen  hun- 
dred years. 

Costanza  was  of  aspect  beautiful 

Exceedingly,  and  seemed,  although 
in  age 

Sixty  about,  to  far  surpass  her  peers 

The  coetaneous  dames,  in  youth  and 
grace. 

Done  the  misdeed,  its  author  takes 
to  flight, 

Foiling  thereby  the  justice  of  the 
world  : 

Not  God's  however,  —  God,  be  sure, 
knows  well 

The  way  to  clutch  a  culprit.  Witless 
here ! 

The  present  sinner,  when  he  least  ex- 
pects, 

Snug-cornered  somewhere  i'  the  Basi- 
licate, 

Stumbles  upon  his  death  by  vio- 
lence. 

A  man  of  blood  assaults  the  man  of 
blood 

And  slays  him  somehow.  This  was 
afterward  : 

Enough,  he  promptly  met  with  his 
deserts, 

And,  ending  thus,  permits  we  end 
with  him, 

And  push  forthwith  to  this  impor- 
tant point  — 

His  matricide  fell  out,  of  ah  .-he 
days, 

Precisely  when  the  law-procedure 
closed 

Respecting  Count  Francesco  Cenci's 
death 

Chargeable  on  his  daughter,  sons,  and 
wife. 

'•'  Thus  patricide  was  matched  with 
matricide," 

A-  poet  not  inelegantly  rhymed  : 

Nay,  fratricide  —  those  Princes  Mas- 
simi !  — 

Which  so  disturbed  the  spirit  of  the 
Pope 

That  all  the  likelihood  Rome  enter- 
tained 

Of  Beatrice's  pardon  vanished 
straight, 

And  she  endured  the  piteous  death. 


Now  see 

The  sequel  —  what  effect  command- 
ment had 

For  strict  inquiry  into  this  last  case, 
When  Cardinal  Aldobrandini  (great 
His  efficacy  —  nephew  to  the  Pope  !) 
Was  bidden  crush  —  ay,  though  his 

very  hand 
Got  soiled  i'  the  act  — crime  spawning 

everywhere  ! 
Because,  when  all  endeavor  had  been 

used 
To  catch  the  aforesaid  Paolo,  all  in 

vain  — 

"  Make  perquisition,"  quoth  our  Emi- 
nence, 

"  Throughout  his  now  deserted  domi- 
cile ! 
Ransack  the  palace,  roof,  and  floor,  to 

find 

If  haply  any  scrap  of  writing,  hid 
In  nook  or  corner,  may  convict  —  who 

knows  ?  — 

Brother  Onofrio  of  intelligence 
With  brother  Paolo,  as  in   brother- 
hood 

Is  but  too  likely  :  crime  spawns  every- 
where ! " 

And,  every  cranny  searched  accord- 
ingly, 
There    comes  to   light  —  O  lynx-eyed 

Cardinal !  — 

Onofrio's  unconsidered  writing-scrap, 
The  letter  in  reply  to  Paolo's  prayer, 
The  word  of  counsel  that  —  things 

proving  so, 
Paolo  should  act  the  proper  knightly 

part, 

And  do  as  was  incumbent  on  a  son, 
A  brother — and  a  man  of  birth,  be 
sure  ! 

Whereat  immediately  the  officers 
Proceeded  to  arrest  Onofrio  —  found 
At  foot-ball,  child's  play,  unaware  of 

harm, 
Safe  with  his  friends,  the  Orsini,  at 

their  seat 

Monte  Giordano  ;  as  he  left  the  house 
He  came  upon  the  watch  in  wait  for 

him 
Set  by  the  Barigel,  —  was  caught  and 

caged. 

News  of  which  capture  being,  that 

same  hour, 

Conveyed    to   Rome,   forthwith    out 
Eminence 


CENCIAJA. 


155 


Commands    Taverna,   Governor    and 

Judge, 

To  have  the  process  in  especial  care, 
Be,  first  to  last,  not  only  president 
In  person,  but  inquisitor  as  well, 
Nor  trust  the  by-work  to  a  substitute  : 
Bids  him   not,   squeamish,  keep  the 

bench,  but  scrub 
The  floor  of  Justice,  so  to  speak,  — go 

try 

His  best  in  prison  with  the  criminal ; 
Promising,    as    reward    for    by-work 

done 

Fairly  on  all-fours,  that,  success  ob- 
tained 

And  crime  avowed,  or  such  conniv- 
ency 

With  crime  as  should  procure  a  de- 
cent death  — 
Himself    will    humbly    beg — which 

means,  procure  — 

The  Hat  and  Purple  from  his  relative 
The  Pope,  and  so  repay  a  diligence 
"Which,  meritorious  in  the  Cenci-case, 
Mounts  plainly  here  to  Purple  and 
the  Hat. 

Whereupon  did  my  lord  the  Gov- 
ernor 

So  masterfully  exercise  the  task 
Enjoined  him,  that  he,  day  by  day, 

and  week 
By  week,  and  month  by  month,  from 

first  to  last 
Deserved  the  prize  :  now,  punctual  at 

his  place, 
Played  Judge,  and  now,  assiduous  at 

his  post, 
Inquisitor  —  pressed       cushion      and 

scoured  plank, 
Early  and   late.     Noon's  fervor  and 

night's  chill, 
Naught    moved  whom   morn   would, 

purpling,  make  ann-inls  ! 
So  that  observers  laughed  as,  many  a 

day, 
He  left  home,  in  July  when  day  is 

flame, 

Posted  to  Tordinona-prison,  plunged 
Into  the  vault  where  daylong  night  is 

ice, 
There    passed   his  eight  hours  on  a 

stretch,  content, 

Examining  Onofrio  :  all  the  stress 
Of  all  examination  steadily 
Converging  into  one  pin-point,  —  he 

pushed 
Tentative  now  of  head  and  now  of 

heart. 


As  when  the  nut-hatch  taps  and  tries 

the  nut 
This  side  and  that  side  till  the  kernel 

sounds, — 
So  did  he  press  the  sole  and  single 

point 

—  What  was  the  very  meaning  of  the 

phrase 

"  Do  what  beseems  an  honored  cava- 
lier?" 

Which  one  persistent  question-tor- 
ture, —  plied 

Day  by  day,  week  by  week,  and  month 
by  month, 

Morn,  noon,  and  night,  —  fatigued 
away  a  mind 

Grown  imbecile  by  darkness,  solitude, 

And  one  vivacious  memory  gnawing 
there 

As  when  a  corpse  is  coffined  with  a 
snake : 

—  Fatigued  Onofrio  into  what  might 

seem 

Admission  that  perchance  his  judg- 
ment groped 

So  blindly,  feeling  foran  issue  —  aught 

With  semblance  of  an  issue  from  the 
toils 

Cast  of  a  sudden  round  feet  late  so 
free,  — 

He  possibly  might  have  envisaged, 
scarce 

Recoiled  from  —  even  were  the  issue 
death 

—  Even  her  death  whose  life  was  death 

and  worse  ! 

Always  provided  that  the  charge  of 
crime, 

Each  jot  and  tittle  of  the  charge  were 
true. 

In  such  a  sense,  belike,  he  might  ad- 
vise 

His  brother  to  expurgate  crime  with 
.  .  .  well, 

With  blood,  if  blood  must  follow  on 
"  the  i-oiirm1 

Taken  as  might  beseem  a  cavalier." 

Whereupon  process  ended,  and  re- 
port 

Was  made  without  a  minute  of  delay 
To  Clement,  who,  because  of  those  two 

crimes 

O'  the  Massimi  and  Cenci  flagrant  late, 
Must  needs  impatiently  desire  result. 

Result  obtained,  he  bade  the  Gov- 
ernor 


156 


CENC1AJA. 


Summon   the   Congregation  and  de- 
spatch. 

Summons  made,  sentence  passed  ac- 
cordingly 
—  Death    by  beheading.     When   his 

death-decree 

Was  intimated  to  Onofrio,  all 
Man  could  do  —  that  did  he  to  save 

himself. 
'Twas  much,  the  having  gained  for  his 

defence 
The  Advocate  o'the  Poor,  with  natural 

help 

Of  many  noble  friendly  persons  fain 
To  disengage  a  man  of  family, 
So  young  too,  from  his  grim  entangle- 
ment. 

But  Cardinal  Aldobrandini  ruled 
There  must  be  no  diversion  of  the  law. 
Justice  is  justice,  and  the  magistrate 
Bears  not  the  sword  in  vain.    Who 
sins  must  die. 

So,  the  Marchese  had  his  head  cut 

off 
In    Place    Saint   Angelo    beside    the 

Bridge, 

With  Rome  to  see,  a  concourse  infi- 
nite ; 

Where  magnanimity  demonstrating 
Adequate  to  his  birth  and  breed, — 

poor  boy  !  — 
He  made  the  people  the  accustomed 

speech, 
Exhorted  them  to  true  faith,  honest 

works, 

And  special  good  behavior  as  regards 
A  parent  of  no  matter  what  the  sex, 
Bidding  each  son  take  warning  from 

himself. 

Truly,  it  was  considered  in  the  boy 
Stark  staring  lunacy,  no  less,  to  snap 
So  plain  a  bait,  be  hooked  and  hauled 

ashore 

By  such  an  angler  as  the  Cardinal ! 
Why  make  confession  of  his  privity 
To    Paolo's    enterprise  ?    Mere    seal- 
ing lips  — 

Or,  better,  saying,   "  When  I   coun- 
selled him 

'  To  do  as  miyht  beseem  a  cavalier, ' 
What  could  I  mean  but,  '  Hide  our 

parent's  shame 
As    Christian  ouyht,  by  aid  of  Holy 

Church! 

Bury  it  in  a  convent  —  ay,  beneath 
Enough  dotation  to  prevent  its  ghost 
From  troubling  earth  ! '  "    Mere  saying 
thus,  —  'tis  plain. 


Not  only  were  his  life  the  recompense, 

But  lie  had  manifestly  proved  him- 
self 

True  Christian,  and  in  lieu  of  pun- 
ishment 

Been  praised  of  all  men  !  —  So  the 
populace. 

Anyhow,    when    the    Pope    made 

promise  good 

(That  of  Aldobrandini,  near  and  dear) 
And  gave  Taverna,  who  had  toiled 

so  much, 
A  cardinal's  equipment,   some   such 

word 
As    this    from    mouth    to    ear    went 

saucily  : 
"  Taverna's  cap  is  dyed  in  what  he 

drew 
From    Santa    Croce's    veins ! "      So 

joked  the  world. 

I  add  :  Onofrio  left  one  child  behind, 
A  daughter  named  Valeria,  dowered 

with  grace 

Abundantly  of  soul  and  body,  doomed 
To  life  the  shorter  for  her  father's 

fate. 

By  death  of  her,  the  Marquisate  re- 
turned 
To  that  Orsini  House  from  whence  it 

came  : 

Oriolo  having  passed  as  donative 
To  Santa  Croce  from  their  ancestors. 

And  no  word  more  ?  By  all  means  ! 
Would  you  know 

The  authoritative  answer,  when  folks 
urged 

"  What  made  Aldobrandini,  hound- 
like  stanch, 

Hunt  out  of  life  a  harmless  simple- 
ton ?  " 

The  answer  was  —  "  Hatred  implaca- 
ble, 

By  reason  they  were  rivals  in  their 
love." 

The  Cardinal's  desire  was  to  a  dame 

Whose  favor  was  Onofrio's.  Pricked 
with  pride, 

The  simpleton  must  ostentatiously 

Display  a  ring,  the  Cardinal's  love- 
gift, 

Given  to  Onofrio  as  the  lady's  gage  ; 

Which  ring  on  finger,  as  he  put  forth 
hand 

To  draw  a  tapestry,  the  Cardinal 

Saw  and  knew,  gift  and  owner,  old 
and  young  ; 


PORPHYRIA'S  LOVER. 


157 


Whereon  a    fury  entered   him  —  the 

tire 
He  quenched  with  what  could  quench 

fire  only  —  blood. 
Nay,   more  :    "  there  want   not   who 

affirm  to  boot, 

The  unwise  boy,  a  certain  festal  eye, 
Feigned  ignorance  of  who  the  wight 

might  be 
That  pressed  too  closely  on  him  with 

a  crowd. 
He  struck  the  Cardinal  a  blow  :  and 

then, 

To  put  a  face  upon  the  incident, 
Dared  next  day,  smug  as  ever,  go  pay 

court 
I'  the  Cardinal's  ante-chamber.    Mark 

and  mend, 
Ye  youth,  by  this  example  how  may 

greed 
Vainglorious     operate     in     worldly 

souls  ! " 

So  ends  the  chronicler,  beginning 

with 
"  God's  justice,  tardy  though  it  prove 

perchance, 

Rests  never  till  it  reach  delinquency." 
Ay,  or  how  otherwise  had  come  to 

pass 
That  Victor  rules,  this  present  year, 

in  Rome  ? 


PORPHYREA'S   LOVER. 


THE  rain  set  early  in  to-night, 
The  sullen  wind  was  soon  awake, 

It  tore  the  elm-tops  down  for  spite, 
And  did  its  worst  to  vex  the  lake, 

I  listened  with  heart  fit  to  break. 


When  glided  in  Porphyria  ;  straight 
She  shut  che  cold  out  and  the  storm. 
And  kneeled,  and  made  the  cheerless 

grate; 

Blaze  up,  and  all  the  cottage  warm  ; 
Which  done,  she  rose,  and  from  her 
form 

in. 
Withdrew    the    dripping   cloak    and 

shawl, 

And  laid  her  soiled  gloves  by,  un- 
tied 


Her  hat  and  let  the  damp  hair  fall, 

And,  last,  she  sat  down  by  my  side 
And  called  me.    When  no  voice  re- 
plied, 


She  put  my  arm  about  her  waist, 
And  made  her  smooth  white  shoul- 
der bare, 

And  all  her  yellow  hair  displaced, 
And,  stooping,  made  my  cheek  lie 

there, 

And    spread,    o'er    all,    her   yellow 
hair,  — 


Murmuring  how  she  loved  me  —  she 
Too  weak,  for  all  her  heart's  en- 
deavor, 

To  set  its  struggling  passion  free 
From   pride,    and   vainer   ties  dis- 
sever, 
And  give  herself  to  me  forever. 


But   passion  sometimes   would    pre- 
vail, 

Nor  could  to-night's  gay  feast  re- 
strain 
A  sudden  thought  of  one  so  pale 

For  love  of  her,  and  all  in  vain  : 
So,  she  was  come  through  wind  and 
rain. 


Be  sure  I  looked  up  at  her  eyes 
Happy  and  proud  :  at  last  I  knew 

Porphyria  worshipped  me  ;  surprise 
Made  my  heart  swell,  and  still  it 
grew 

While  I  debated  what  to  do. 


That  moment  she  was  mine,   mine 
fair, 

Perfectly  pure  and  good  :  I  found 
A  thing  to  do,  and  all  her  hair 

In  one  long  yellow  string  I  wound 
Three  times  her  little  throat  arouucl, 

IX. 

And  strangled  her.     No  pain  felt  she  : 
I  am  quit.-  sun-  she  felt  no  pain. 

As  ;i  shut  bud  that  holds  a  '»•(•. 
I  warily  oped  her  lids  :  again 

Laughed    the    blue    eyes    without   * 
slain 


FILIPPO  BALDINUCCI   ON  BURIAL. 


And  I  untightened  next  the  tress 
About  her  neck  ;    her  cheek  once 

more 
Blushed  bright  beneath  my  burning 

kiss  : 

I  propped  her  head  up  as  before. 
Only,  this  time  my  shoulder  bore 


Her  head,  which  droops  upon  it  still  : 
The  smiling  rosy  little  head, 

So  glad  it  has  its  utmost  will, 
That  all  it  scorned  at  once  is  fled, 

And  I,  its  love,  am  gained  instead  ! 


Porphyria's   love :    she   guessed   not 

how 
Her   darling   one    wish    would    be 

heard. 

And  thus  we  sit  together  now. 
And  all  night   long  we   have   not 

stirred, 
And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word  ! 


FILIPPO  BALDESTUCCI  ON  THE 
PRIVILEGE  OF  BURIAL. 

A  Reminiscence  of  A.D.  1676. 


No,  boy,  we  must  not  (so  began 
My    Uncle —  he's    with    God    long 

since  — 

A-petting  me,  the  good  old  man  !) 
We  must  not  (and  he  seemed   to 

wince, 
And   lose   that   laugh   whereto   had 

grown 

His  chuckle  at  my  piece  of  news, 
H!ow  cleverly  I  aimed  my  stone) 
I  fear  we  must  not  pelt  the  Jews  ! 


n. 

When  I  was  young  indeed,  —  ah,  faith 
Was  young  and  strong  in  Florence 

too! 
We    Christians    never    dreamed    of 

scathe 

Because  we  cursed  or  kicked  the 
crew. 


But    now  —  well,    well!    The    olive--- 

crops 
Weighed  double  then,  and  Arno's 

pranks 

Would  always  spare  religious  shops 
Whenever  he  o'erflowed  his  banks  ! 

in. 

I'll  tell  you  (and  his  eye  regained 
Its    twinkle)    tell    you    something 

choice ! 

Something  may  help  you  keep  un- 
stained 

Your  honest  zeal  to  stop  the  voice 
Of  unbelief  with  stone-throw — spite 
Of  laws,  which  modern  fools  enact, 
That  we  must  suffer  Jews  in  sight 
Go  wholly  unmolested  !     Fact ! 


There  was,  then,  in  my  youth,  and  yet 

Is,  by  San  Frediano,  just 
Below  the  Blessed  Olivet, 

A   wayside    ground    wherein    they 

thrust 

Their  dead,  —  these  Jews,  —  the  more 
our  shame ! 

Except  that,  so  they  will  but  die, 
We  may  perchance  incur  110  blame 

In  giving  hogs  a  hoist  to  stye. 


There,  anyhow,  Jews  stow  away 

Their  dead  ;  and,  —  such  their  inso- 
lence,— 
Slink  at  odd  times  to  sing  and  pray 

As    Christians    do  —  all    make-pre- 
tence !  — 
Which  wickedness  they  perpetrate 

Because  they  think  no  Christians  see 
They  reckoned  here,  at  any  rate, 

Without  their  host :  ha,  ha,  he,  he  ! 


For,  what  should  join  their  plot  of 

ground 

But  a  good  Farmer's  Christian  field? 
The  Jews  had   hedged  their  corner 

round 

With  bramble-bush  to    keep    con- 
cealed 

Their  doings  :  for  the  public  road 
Ran  betwixt  this  their  ground  and 

that 
The  Farmer's,  where  he  ploughed  and 

sowed, 

Grew  corn  for  barn  and  grapes  for 
vat. 


FIL1PPO   BALD1NUCCI  ON   BURIAL. 


159 


So,  properly  to  guard  his  store 

And  gall  the  unbelievers  too, 
He  builds  a  shrine  and,  what  is  more, 

Procures  a  painter  whom  I  knew, 
One  Buti  (he's  with  God)  to  paint 

A  holy  picture  there  —  no  less 
Than  Virgin  Mary  free  from  taint 

Borne  to  the  sky  by  angels  :  yes  ! 


Which   shrine  he  fixed,  —  who    says 

him  nay  ?  — 

A-facing  with  its  picture-side 
Not,  as  you'd  think,  the  public  way, 
But  just  where  sought  these  hounds 

to  hide 

Their  carrion  from  that  very  truth 
Of  Mary's  triumph  :  not  a  hound 
Could  act  his  mummeries  uncouth 
But    Mary    shamed    the    pack   all 
round  ! 


Now,  if  it  was  amusing,  judge  ! 

—  To  see  the  company  arrive, 
Each  Jew  intent  to  end  his  trudge 

And  take  his  pleasure  (though  alive) 
With  all  his  Jewish  kith  and  kin 

Below  ground,  have  his  venom  out, 
Sharpen  his  wits  for  next  day's  sin, 

Curse  Christians,  and  so  home,  no 
doubt ! 


Whereas,  each  phiz  upturned  beholds 

Mary,  I  warrant,  soaring  brave  ! 
And  in  a  trice,  beneath  the  folds 

Of   filthy  garb   which  gowns  each 

knave, 
Down  drops  it  —  there  to  hide  grimace, 

Contortion  of  the  mouth  and  nose 
At  finding  Mary  in  the  place 

They'd  keep  for  Pilate,  I  suppose  ! 


At  last,  they  will    not    brook  —  not 
they !  — 

Longer  such  outrage,  on  their  tribe  : 
So,  in  some  hole  and  corner,  lay 

Their  heads  together —  how  to  bribe 
The  meritorious  Farmer's  self 

To  straight  undo  his  work,  restore 
Their  chance  to  meet,  and  muse  on 

r,eif  — 

Pretending  sorrow,  as  before  ! 


Forthwith,  a  posse,  if  you  please, 

Of  Rabbi  This  and  Rabbi  That 
Almost  go  down  11)1011  their  knees 

To  get  him  lay  the  picture  flat. 
The  spokesman,  eighty  years  of  age, 

Gray  as  a  badger,  with  a  goat's 
—  Not  only  beard  but  bleat,  'gins  wage 

War    with    our    Mary.      Thus    he 
dotes  :  — 

XIII. 

"  Friends,  grant  a  grace  !    How  He- 
brews toil 

Through  life  in  Florence  —  why  re- 
late 

To  those  who  lay  the  burden,  spoil 
Our  paths  of  peace  ?    We  bear  ou» 

fate. 

But  when  with  life  the  long  toil  ends, 
Why    must    you  —  the    expression 

craves 
Pardon,     but     truth     compels     me, 

friends  !  — 

Why  must  you  plague   us    in  our 
graves  ? 

xrv. 

"  Thoughtlessly  plague,  I  would  be- 
lieve ! 

For  how  can  you  —  the  lords  of  ease 
By  nurture,  birthright  —  e'en  conceive 

Our  luxury  to  lie  with  trees 
And  turf,  —  the  cricket  and  the  bird 

Left  for  our  last  companionship  : 
No  harsh  deed,  no  unkindly  word, 

No  frowning  brow  nor  scornful  lip  ! 

xv. 

"  Death's  luxury,  we  now  rehearse 
While,  living,  through  your  streets 

w«-  fare 

And  take  your  hatred  :  nothing  worse 
Have  we,  once  dead  and  safe,  to 

bear  ! 

So  we  refresh  our  souls,  fulfil 
Our  works,   our  daily  tasks  ;  and 

thus 
Gather  you  grain  —  earth's  harvest  — 

still 
The  wheat  for  you,  the  straw  for  us. 

XVI. 

" '  What  flouting  in  a  face,  what  harm, 

In  just  a  lady  borne  from  bier 
By  boys'   heads,  wings  for  leg  and 

arm  ? ' 

You  question.     Friends,  the  harm 
is  here  — 


160 


FILIPPO  BALDINUCCI  ON   BURIAL. 


That  just  when  our  last  sigh  is  heaved, 
And  we  would  fain  thank  God  and 
you 

For  labor  done  and  peace  achieved, 
Back  comes  the  Past  in  full  review ! 


i  "  At  sight  of  just  that  simple  flag, 

Starts  the  foe-feeling  serpent-like 
From  slumber.    Leave  it  lulled,  nor 

drag  — 
Though  fangless  —  forth,  what  needs 

must  strike 
When  stricken  sore,  though  stroke  be 

vain 
Against     the     mailed     oppressor ! 

Give 

Play  to  our  fancy  that  we  gain 
Life's  rights  when  once  we  cease  to 
live ! 

XVIII. 

"  Thus  much  to  courtesy,  to  kind, 
To  conscience  !    Now  to  Florence 

folk! 

There's  core  beneath  this  apple-rind, 
Beneath  this  white  of  egg  there's 

yolk! 

Beneath  this  prayer  to  courtesy, 
Kind,  conscience  —  there's  a  sum  to 

pouch  ! 

How  many  ducats  down  will  buy 
Our  shame's  removal,  sirs?  Avouch ! 

XIX. 

"  Removal,  not  destruction,  sirs  ! 
Just    turn    your    picture !     Let    it 

front 
The  public  path  !    Or  memory  errs, 

Or  that  same  public  path  is  wont 
To  witness  many  a  chance  befall 
Of     lust,     theft,     bloodshed  — sins 

enough, 

Wherein  our  Hebrew  part  is  small. 
Convert  yourselves  !  "  — he  cut  up 
rough. 

XX. 

Look  you,  how  soon  a  service  paid 

Religion  yields  the  servant  fruit ! 
A  prompt  reply  our  Farmer  made 

So  following  :  "  Sirs,  to  grant  your 

suit 

Involves  much  danger  !  How  ?  Trans- 
pose 

Our  Lady  ?    Stop  the  chastisement, 
All  for  your  good,  herself  bestows  ? 

What  wonder  if  I  grudge  consent  ? 


—  "Yet  grant  it  :  since,  what  cash  I 
take 

Is  so  much  saved  from  wicked  use. 
We    know    you !     And,    for    Mary's 
sake, 

A  hundred  ducats  shall  induce 
Concession  to  your  prayer.     One  day 

Suffices  :  Master  Buti's  brush 
Turns  Mary  round  the  other  way, 

And  deluges  your  side  with  slush. 


"  Down  with  the  ducats  therefore  !  " 

Dump, 
Dump,  dump  it  falls,  each  counted 

piece, 
Hard  gold.    Then  out  of  door  they 

stump, 
These  dogs,  each  brisk  as  with  new 

lease 

Of  life,  I  warrant,  — glad  he'll  die 
Henceforward    just     as     he     may 

choose, 

Be  buried  and  in  clover  lie  ! 
Well    said    Esaias  —  "  stiff-necked 
Jews ! " 

XXIII. 

Off  posts  without  a  minute's  loss 

Our  Farmer,  once  the  cash  in  poke, 
And  summons  Buti  —  ere  its  gloss 
Have    time   to    fade   from    off   the 

joke  — 

To  chop  and  change  his  work,  undo 
The  done  side,  make  the  side,  now 

blank, 

Recipient  of  our  Lady  —  who, 
Displaced  thus,  had  these  dogs  to 
thank  ! 


Now,  you're  no  boy  I  need  instruct 

In  technicalities  of  Art ! 
My    nephew's    childhood    sure    has 

sucked 

Along  with  mother's-milk  some  part 
Of     painter's-practice  —  learned,     at 

least, 

How  expeditiously  is  plied 
A  work  in  fresco  —  never  ceased 
When   once    begun  —  a    day,    each 
side. 

xxv. 
So,  Buti  —  he's  with  God  —  begins  : 

First  covers  up  the  shrine  all  round 
With  hoarding  ;  then,  as  like  as  twins, 
Paints,    t'other    side    the     burial- 
ground, 


F1LIPPO   BALDINUCCI  ON  BURIAL. 


New  Mary,  every  point  the  same  ; 

Next,  sluices  over,  as  agreed, 
The   old;    and  last — but,   spoil   the 
game 

By  telling  you  ?    Not  I,  indeed  ! 


"Well,  ere  the  week  was  half  at  end, 

Out  came  the  object  of  this  zeal, 
This  fine  alacrity  to  spend 
Hard  money  for  mere  dead  men's 

weal ! 

How  think  you?    That  old  spokes- 
man Jew 
Was   High   Priest,  and  he  had  a, 

wife 

As  old,  and  she  was  dying  too, 
And  wished  to  end  in  peace  her 
life! 


And  he  must  humor  dying  whims, 

And  soothe  her  with  the  idle  hope 
They'd  say  their  prayers  and   sing 

their  hymns 

As  if  her  husband  were  the  Pope  ! 
And  she  did  die  —  believing  just 
This     privilege     was     purchased ! 

Dead 

In  comfort  through  her  foolish  trust ! 
"  Stiff-necked   ones,"    well   Esaias 
said  ! 


So,  Sabbath  morning,  out  of  gate 

And  on  to  way,  what  sees  our  arch 
Good  Farmer  ?    Why,  they  hoist  their 

freight  — 
The  corpse  —  on  shoulder,  and  so, 

march  ! 

"  Now  for  it,  Buti !  "    In  the  nick 
Of  time  'tis  pully-hauly,  hence 
With   hoarding !    O'er   the   wayside 

quick 
There's  Mary  plain  in  evidence  ! 


And  here's  the  convoy  halting  :  right ! 
Oh,  they  are  bent  on  howling  psalms 
And  growling  prayers,  when   oppo- 
site ! 
And  yet  they  glance,  for  all  their 

qualms, 

Approve  that  promptitude  of  his, 
The  Farmer's  —  duly  at  his  post 
To  take  due  thanks  from -every  phiz, 
Sour     smirk  — nay,     surly     smile 
almost ! 


XXX. 

Then    earthward    drops    each    brow 
again  ; 

The  solemn  task's  resumed ;  they 

reach 
Their  holy  field  —  the  unholy  train  : 

Enter  its  precinct,  all  and  each, 
Wrapt  somehow  in  their  godless  rites  ; 

Till,  rites  at  end,  up-waking,  lo 
They  lift  their  faces  !    What  delights 

The  mourners  as  they  turn  to  go  ? 


Ha,  ha,  he,  he  !    On  just  the  side 
They   drew    their  purse-strings    to 

make  quit 

Of  Mary,  —  Christ  the  Crucified 
Fronted   them   now  — these   biters 

bit! 

Never  was  such  a  hiss  and  snort, 
Such  screwing  nose  and  shooting 

lip! 

Their  purchase  —  honey  in  report — 
Proved  gall  and  verjuice  at  first  sip  I 


Out  they  break,  on  they  bustle,  where, 

A-top  of  wall,  the  Farmer  waits 
With  Buti  :  never  fun  so  rare  ! 

The  Farmer  has  the  best :  he  rates 
The  rascal,  as  the  old  High  Priest 

Takes  on  himself  to  sermonize  — 
Nay,  sneer  "  We  Jews  supposed,  at 
least, 

Theft  was   a   crime    in    Christian 
eyes ! " 


"Theft?"  cries   the    Farmer,  "Eat 
your  words  ! 

Show  me  what  constitutes  a  breach 
Of  faith  in  aught  was  said  or  heard  ! 

I  promised  you  in  plainest  speech 
I'd  take  the  thing  you  count  disgrace 

And  put  it  here  —  and  here  'tis  put ! 
Did  you  suppose  I'd  leave  the  place 

Blank  therefore,  just  your  rage  to 
glut? 


"  I  guess  you  dared  not  stipulate 
For  such  a  damned  impertinence  ! 

So,  quick,  my  graybeard,  out  of  gate 
And    in    at   Ghetto !     Haste   you 
hence  1 


162 


FIL1PPO  BALDINUCCI  ON  BURIAL. 


As  long  as  I  have  house  and  land, 

To  spite  you  irreligious  chaps 
Here  shall  the  Crucifixion  stand  — 
Unless  you  down  with  cash,  per- 
haps ! " 

xxxv. 
So  snickered  he  and  Buti  both. 

The  Jews  said  nothing,  interchanged 
A  glance  or  two,  renewed  their  oath 
To    keep  ears  stopped  and  hearts 

estranged 
From  grace,  for  all  our  Church  can  do. 

Then  off  they  scuttle  :  sullen  jog 
Homewards,   against  our  Church  to 

brew 
Fresh  mischief  in  their  synagogue. 


But  next  day  —  see  what  happened, 

boy  ! 

See  why  I  bid  you  have  a  care 
How  you  pelt  Jews  !    The  knaves  em- 
ploy 

Such  methods  of  revenge,  forbear 
No  outrage  on  our  faith,  when  free 
To  wreak  their  malice  !    Here  they 

took 

So  base  a  method  —  plague  o'  me 
If  I  record  it  in  my  Book  ! 


For,  next  day,  while  the  Farmer  sat 

Laughing  with  Buti,  in  his  shop, 
At  their  successful  joke,  —  rat-tat,  — 

Door  opens,  and  they're  like  to  drop 
Down  to  the  floor  as  in  there  stalks 

A  six-feet-high  herculean-built 
Young  he-Jew  with  a  beard  that  balks 

Description.    "  Help,  ere  blood  be 
spilt ! " 

xxxvnr. 

—  Screamed  Buti :  for  he  recognized 

Whom  but  the  son,  no  less  no  more, 
Of  that  High  Priest  his  work  surprised 

So  pleasantly  the  day  before  ! 
Son  of  the  mother,  then,  whereof 

The  bier  he  lent  a  shoulder  to, 
And   made  the  moans  about,  dared 
scoff 

At  sober,  Christian  grief  —  the  Jew  ! 


"  Sirs,  I  salute  you  !    Never  rise  ! 

No  apprehension  !  "    (Buti,. white 
And  trembling  like  a  tub  of  size, 

Had  tried  to  smuggle  out  of  sight 


The  picture's  self  —  the  thing  in  oils, 
You    know,  from  which  a  fresco's 

dashed 
"Which  courage  speeds  while  caution 

spoils) 

"  Stay   and    be    praised,   sir,    una- 
bashed ! 

XL. 
"  Praised,—  ay,  and  paid  too  :  for  I 

come 

To  buy  that  very  work  of  yours. 
My  poor  abode,  which  boasts  —  well, 

some 

Few  specimens  of  Art,  secures 
Haply,  a  masterpiece  indeed 

If  I  should  find  my  humble  means 
Suffice  the  outlay.    So,  proceed  ! 
Propose  —  ere       prudence       inter- 
venes !  " 

XLI. 

On  Buti,  cowering  like  a  child, 

These  words  descended  from  aloft, 
In  tone  so  ominously  mild, 

With  smile  terrifically  soft 
To  that  degree  —  could  Buti  dare 

(Poor  fellow)  use  his  brains,  think 

twice  ? 
He  asked,  thus  taken  unaware, 

No  more  than  just  the  proper  price  ! 

XLII. 
"  Done  !  "  cries  the  monster.     "  I  dis- 

burse 

Forthwith  your  moderate  demand. 
Count  on  my  custom  —  if  no  worse 
Your  future  work  be,  understand, 
Than  this  I  carry  off  !    No  aid  ! 
My  arm,  sir,  lacks  nor  bone    nor 

thews  : 

The  burden's  easy,  and  we're  made, 
Easy  or  hard,  to  bear  —  we  Jews  !  " 


Crossing  himself  at  such  escape, 
Buti  by  turns  the  money  eyes 
And,  timidly,  the  stalwart  shape 
Now  moving  doorwards  ;  but,  more 

wise, 
The    Farmer,  —  who,   though    dumb, 

this  while 
Had  watched  advantage,  —  straight 

conceived 

A  reason  for  that  tone  and  smile 
So  mild  and  soft!    The  Jew  —  be- 
lieved ! 


FILIPPO  BALDINUCCI  ON  BURIAL. 


163 


XLIV. 

Mary  in  triumph  borne  to  deck 
A     Hebrew    household !    Pictured 

where 
No  one  was  used  to  bend  the  neck 

In  praise  or  bow  the  knee  in  prayer  ! 
Borne  to  that  domicile  by  whom  ? 
The    son     of     the    High     Priest ! 

Through  what  ? 

An  insult  done  his  mother's  tomb  ! 
Saul   changed    to   Paul — the   case 
came  pat ! 

XLV. 

"  Stay,  dog-Jew  .  .  .  gentle  sir,  that 

is ! 
Resolve     me !    Can     it     be,     she 

crowned  — 
Mary,  by  miracle —  Oh  bliss  !  — 

My  present  to  your  burial-ground  ? 
Certain,  a  ray  of  light  has  burst 
Your  veil  of  darkness  !    Had  you 

else, 

Only  for  Mary's  sake,  unpursed 
So  much  hard  money?    Tell  —  oh. 
tell's ! " 

XLVI. 

Round  —  like  a  serpent  that  we  took 
For  worm  and  trod  on  —  turns  his 

bulk 
About  the  Jew.    First  dreadful  look 

Sends  Buti  in  a  trice  to  skulk 
Out  of  sight  somewhere,  safe  —  alack ! 
But  our  good  Farmer  faith  made 

bold: 

And  firm  (with  Florence  at  his  back) 
He  stood,  while  gruff  the  gutturals 
rolled— 

XLVII. 
"  Ay,  sir,  a  miracle  was  worked, 

By  quite  another  power,  I  trow, 
Than  ever  yet  in  canvas  lurked, 

Or  you  would  scarcely  face  me  now  ! 
A  certain  impulse  did  suggest 
A   certain   grasp  with  this   right- 
hand, 

Which  probably  had  put  to  rest 
Our  quarrel,  —  thus  your  throat  once 
spanned ! 


"  But  I  remembered  me,  subdued 
That  impulse,  and  you  face  me  still 

And  soon  a  philosophic  mood 
Succeeding  (hear  it,  if  you  will !) 


Has  altogether  changed  my  views 
Concerning  Art.    Blind 'prejudice  ! 

Well  may  you  Christians  tax  us  Jews 
With  scrupulosity  too  nice  ! 


XLIX. 

I     see,  —  let's 


issu* 


"  For,     don't 
join !  — 

Whenever  I'm  allowed  pollute 
(I  —  and  my  little  bag  of  coin) 

Some  Christian  palace  of  repute,- 
Don't  I  see  stuck  up  everywhere 

Abundant  proof  that  cultured  taste 
Has  Beauty  for  its  only  care, 
And   upon   Truth   no   thought   to 
waste  ? 

L. 

" '  Jew,   since   it   must   be,   take   in 
pledge 

Of  payment'  —  so  a  Cardinal 
Has  sighed  to  me  as  if  a  wedge 

Entered  his  heart  — '  this  best  of  all 
My  treasures  ! '  Leda,  Ganymede, 

Or  Antiope  :  swan,  eagle,  ape 
(Or  what's  the  beast  of  what's  the 

breed), 
And  Jupiter  in  every  shape  1 


"  Whereat  if  I  presume  to  ask 
'  But,    Eminence,   though    Titian's 

whisk 

Of  brush  have  well  performed  its  task, 
How  comes  it  these  false  godships 

frisk 

In  presence  of  —  what  yonder  frame 
Pretends  to  image  ?    Surely,  odd 
It  seems,  you  let  confront  The  Name 
Each  beast  the  heathen  called  his 
god!' 

LII. 

"  Benignant  smiles  me  pitv  straight 

The    Cardinal.    '  'Tis    "Truth,    we 

prize  ! 
Art's  the  sole  question  in  debate  ! 

These  subjects  are  so  many  lies. 
We  treat  them  with  a  proper  scorn 

When  we  turn  lies  —  called  gods  for- 
sooth — 
To  lies'  fit  use,  now  Christ  is  born. 

Drawing  and  coloring  are  Truth. 


"  '  Think  you  I  honor  lies  so  much 
As  scruple  to  parade  the  charms 

Of  Leda  — Titian,  every  touch  — 
Because  the  thing  within  her  arms 


164 


SOLILOQUY   OF  THE  SPANISH   CLOISTER. 


Means  Jupiter  who  had  the  praise 
And  prayer  of  a  benighted  world  ? 

Benighted  I  too,  if,  in  days 
Of  light,  I  kept  the  canvas  furled  ! ' 


"  So  ending,  with  some  easy  gibe. 

What  power  has  logic  !    I,  at  once, 
Acknowledged  error  in  our  tribe, 

So  squeamish  that,  when   friends 

ensconce 
A  pretty  picture  in  its  niche 

To  do  us  honor,  deck  our  graves, 
We  fret  and  fume  and  have  an  itch 

To       strangle       folk  —  ungrateful 
knaves ! 


"No,  sir  !    Be  sure  that  —  what's  its 

style, 
Your  picture  ?  —  shall  possess   un- 

grudged 
A  place  among  my  rank  and  file 

Of  Ledas  and  what  not  —  be  judged 
Just  as  a  picture  !  —  and  (because 

I  fear  me  much  I  scarce  have  bought 
A  Titian)  Master  Buti's  flaws 
Found  there,  will  have  the  laugh 
flaws  ought ! " 


So,  with  a  scowl,  it  darkens  door  — 

This  bulk  —  no  longer  !    Buti  makes 

Prompt  glad  re-entry;  there's  a  score 

Of  oaths,  as  the  good  Farmer  wakes 

From  what  must  needs  have  been  a 

trance, 
Or  he  had   struck  (he  swears)  to 

ground 

The  bold  bad  mouth  that  dared  ad- 
vance 
Such  doctrine  the  reverse  of  sound  ! 


Was  magic  here  ?    Most  like  !    For, 

since, 

Somehow  our  city's  faith  grows  still 
More  and  more  lukewarm,  and  our 

Prince 

Or  loses  heart  or  wants  the  will 
To    check    increase    of     cold.     'Tis 

"  Live 

And  let  live  !    Languidly  repress 
The  Dissident !    In  short,  —  contrive 
Christians  must  bear  with  Jews :  no 
less ! " 


The  end  seems,  any  Israelite 

Wants  any  picture,  —  pishes,  poohs, 
Purchases,  hangs  it  full  in  sight 

In  any  chamber  he  may  choose  ! 
In  Christ's  crown,  one  more  thorn  we 
rue  ! 

In  Mary's  bosom,  one  more  sword  ! 
No,  boy,  you  must  not  pelt  a  Jew  ! 

O  Lord,  how  long?    How  long,  O 
Lord? 


SOLILOQUY   OF  THE    SPAN- 
ISH CLOISTER. 


GR-R-R — there  go,  my  heart's  abhor- 
rence ! 
Water    your    damned    flower-pots, 

do! 

If  hate  killed  men,  Brother  Lawrence, 
God's  blood,  would  not  mine  kill 

you! 

What  ?  your  myrtle-bush  wants  trim- 
ming? 

Oh,  that  rose  has  prior  claims  — 
Needs   its   leaden  vase   filled    brim- 
ming ? 
Hell  dry  you  up  with  its  flames  ! 


At  the  meal  we  sit  together  : 

Salve  tibi !    I  must  hear 
Wise  talk  of  the  kind  of  weather, 

Sort  of  season,  time  of  year  : 
Not  a  plenteous  cork-crop  :  scarcely 

Dare  ice  hope  oak-galls,  I  doubt  : 
What's  the  Latin  name  for  "parsley  "? 

What's  the  Greek  name  for  Swine'? 
Snout  ? 


Whew  !    We'll  have  our  platter  bur- 
nished, 

Laid  with  care  on  our  own  shelf  ! 
With   a    fire-new   spoon    we're    fur 
nished, 

And  a  goblet  for  ourself, 
Rinsed  like  something  sacrificial 

Ere  'tis  fit  to  touch  our  chaps  — 
Marked  with  L.  for  our  initial ! 

(He-he  I    There  his  lily  snaps  !) 


Soliloquy  of  the  Spanish  Cloister. —  Page  164. 


THE   HERETIC'S    TRAGEDY. 


165 


IV. 

While 


brown    Do- 


Saint,  forsooth  ! 
lores 

Squats  outside  the  Convent  bank 
"With  Sanchicha,  telling  stories, 

Steeping  tresses  in  the  tank, 
Blue-black,  lustrous,  thick  like  horse- 
hairs, 

—  Can't  I  see  his  dead  eye  glow, 
Bright  as  'twere  a  Barbary  corsair's  ? 

(That  is,  if  he'd  let  it  show  !) 


When  he  finishes  refection, 

Knife  and  fork  he  never  lays 
Cross-wise,  to  my  recollection, 

As  do  I,  in  Jesu's  praise. 
I  the  Trinity  illustrate, 

Drinking  watered  orange-pulp  — 
In  three  sips  the  Arian  frustrate  ; 

While  he  drains  his  at  one  gulp. 


Oh,  those  melons  ?    If  he's  able 

We're  to  have  a  feast !  so  nice  ! 
One  goes  to  the  Abbot's  table, 

All  of  ns  get  each  a  slice. 
How    go    on    your    flowers  ?     None 
double  ? 

Not  one  fruit-sort  can  you  spy  ? 
Strange  !  —And  I,  top,  at  such  trouble 

Keep  them  close-nipped  on  the  sly  ! 


There's  a  great  text  in  Galatians, 

Once  you  trip  on  it,  entails 
Twenty-nine  distinct  damnations, 

One  sure,  if  another  fails  : 
If  I  trip  him  just  a-dying, 

Sure  of  heaven  as  sure  can  be, 
Spin  him  round  and  send  him  flying 

Off  to  hell,  a  Manichee  ? 


Or,  my  scrofulous  French  novel 

On  gray  paper  with  blunt  type  ! 
Simply  glance  at  it,  yon  grovef 

Hand  and  foot  in  Belial's  gripe  : 
If  I  double  down  its  pages 

At  the  woful  sixteenth  print, 
When  he  gathers  his  greengages, 

Ope  a  sieve  and  slip  it  in't  ? 


Or,  there's  Satan  !  —  one-  might  ven- 

ture 
Pledge  one's  soul  to  him,  yet  leave 


Such  a  flaw  in  the  indenture 
As  he'd  miss  till,  past  retrieve, 

Blasted  lay  that  rose-acacia 
We're  so  proud  of  !  Hy,  Zy,  Hine  .  . . 

'St,  there's  Vespers  !    Plena  yratid 
Ave,  Viryo  !    Gr-r-r  —  you  swine  ! 


THE    HERETIC'S    TRAGEDY. 

A  MIDDLE-AGE  INTERLUDE. 

EOSA  MUNDI  J  8EU,  FULCITE  ME  FLORIBUS. 
A  CONCEIT  OF  MASTER  GYSBRECHT, 
CANON-REGULAR  OF  SAINT  JODOCUS-BY- 
THE-BAR,  YPHES  CITY.  CANTUQUE,  Vir- 
ffilillH.  AND  HATH  OFTEN  BEEN  SUNO 
AT  HOCK-TIDE  AND  FESTIVALS.  GAVI- 

8U8  ERAM,  Jessides. 

(It  would  seem  to  be  a  glimpse  from  the 
burning  of  Jacques  du  Bourg-Molay,  at 
Paris,  A.D.  1314  ;  as  distorted  by  the  refrac- 
tion from  Flemish  brain  to  brain,  during  the 
course  of  a  couple  of  centuries.) 

I. 

PKEADMONISHETH   THE  ABBOT  DEO- 
DAET. 

THE  Lord,  we  look  to  once  for  all, 
Is  the  Lord  we  should  look  at,  all 

at  once  : 
He  knows  not  to  vary,  saith  Saint 

Paul, 
Nor  the  shadow  of  turning,  for  the 

nonce. 

See  him  no  other  than  as  he  is  i 
Give    both    the    infinitudes    their 

due  — 

Infinite  mercy,  but,  I  wis, 
As  infinite  a  justice  too. 

[Organ:  plagal-cadence. 
As  infinite  a  justice  too. 


ir 


ONE   SINOETH. 

John,  Master  of  the  Temple  of  God, 

Falling  to  sin  the  Unknown  Sin, 
What  he  bought  of  Emperor  Alda- 

brod, 

He  sold  it  to  Sultan  Saladin  : 
Till,  caught  by  Pope  Clement,  a-buzz- 

ing  there, 

Hornet-prince  of  the  mad   wasp?' 
hive, 


166 


THE   HERETIC'S   TRAGEDY 


And  dipt  of  his  wings  in  Paris  sqxiare, 
They  bring  him  now  to  be  burned 

alive. 

[And  wanteth  there  (/race  of  lute 
or  clavicithern,  ye  shall  say  to 
confirm  him  who  sinyeth  — 
"We  bring  John  now  to  be  burned 
alive. 

in. 

In  the  midst  is  a  goodly  gallows  built ; 
'Twixt  fork  and  fork,  a  stake  is 

stuck  ; 
But    first    they   set    divers    tumbrils 

a-tilt, 
Make  a  trench  all  round  with  the 

city  muck ; 
Inside  they  pile  log  upon  log,  good 

store  ; 
Fagots  not  few,  blocks  great  and 

small, 
Reach  a  man's  mid-thigh,  no  less,  no 

more, — 

For  they  mean  he  should  roast  in 
the  sight  of  all. 

CHORUS. 

We  mean  he  should  roast  in  the 
sight  of  all. 

IV. 

Good  sappy  bavins  that  kindle  forth- 
with ; 
Billets  that  blaze  substantial  and 

slow ; 

Pine-stump  split  deftly,  dry  as  pith  ; 
Larch-heart  that  chars  to  a  chalk- 
white  glow  : 

Then  up  they  hoist  me  John  in  a  chafe, 
Sling  him  fast  like  a  hog  to  scorch, 
Spit  in  his  face,  then  leap  back  safe, 
Sing  "  Laudes,"  and  bid  clap-to  the 
torch. 


Laus   Deo  —  who   bids   clap-to   the 
torch. 


John  of  the  Temple,  whose  fame  so 

bragged, 

Is  burning  alive  in  Paris  square  ! 
How  can  he  curse,  if  his  mouth  is 

gagged  ? 
Or  wriggle  his  neck,  with  a  collar 

there  ? 
Or  heave  his  chest,  while  a  band  goes 

round  ? 

Or  threat  with   his  fist,  since  his 
arms  are  spliced  ? 


Or  kick  with  his  feet,  now  his  legs  are 

bound  ? 

—  Thinks    John,   I   will  call  upon 
Jesus  Christ. 

[Here  one  crosselh  himself. 


Jesus  Christ  —  John  had  bought  and 

sold, 
Jesus  Christ  —  John  had  eaten  and 

drunk  ; 
To  him,  the  Flesh  meant  silver  and 

gold. 

(Salyd  reverentia.) 

Now  it  was, "  Saviour,  bountiful  lamb, 
I  have  roasted  thee  Turks,  though 

men  roast  me  ! 
See  thy  servant,  the  plight  wherein  I 

am  ! 

Art   thou   a  saviour?     Save   thou 
me !  " 

CHORUS. 

'Tis  John  the  mocker  cries,  "Savs 
thou  me  !  " 


"Who  maketh  God's  menace  an  idle 

word  ?  ' 
—  Saith,  it  no  more  means  what  it 

proclaims, 
Than  a  damsel's  threat  to  her  wanton 

bird?  — 

For  she  too  prattles  of  ugly  names. 
—  Saith,  he  knoweth  but  one  thing,  — 

what  he  knows  ? 
That  God  is  good  and  the  rest  is 

breath  ; 
Why  else  is  the  same  styled  Sharon's 

rose  ? 
Once  a  rose,  ever  a  rose,  he  saith. 

CHORUS. 

Oh,  John  shall  yet  find  a  rose,  he 
saith. 

VIII. 

Alack,  there  be  roses  and  roses,  John  ! 
Some    honeyed  of    taste   like  your 

leman's  tongue  : 
Some,  bitter  ;  for  why  ?  (roast  gayly 

on !) 
Their  tree    struck    root    in  devil's 

dung. 

When  Paul  once  reasoned  of  righteous- 
ness 

And  of  temperance  and  of  judgment 
to  come, 


HOLY-CROSS   DAY. 


167 


Good  Felix  trembled,  he  could  no  less  : 
John,      snickering,      crooked      his 
wicked  thumb. 

CHOKUS. 

What  cometh  to  John  of  the  wicked 
thumb  ? 

IX. 

Ha,  ha !  John  plucketh  now  at  his 

rose 

To  rid  himself  of  a  sorrow  at  heart ! 
Lo,  — petal  on  petal,  fierce  rays  un- 
close ; 

Anther  on  anther,  sharp  spikes  out- 
start  ; 
And  with  blood  for  dew,  the  bosom 

boils  •, 

And  a  gust  of  sulphur  is  all  its  smell  ; 
And  lo,  he  is  horribly  in  the  toils 
Of  a  coal-black  giant  flower  of  hell ! 

CHORUS. 

What  maketh  heaven,  That  maketh 
hell. 

x. 
So,  as  John  called  now,  through  the 

fire  amain, 
On  the  Name,  he  had  cursed  with, 

all  his  life  — 
To  the  Person,  he  bought  and  sold 

again  — 
FO.T  the  Face,  with  his  daily  buffets 

rife  — 

Feature  by  feature  It  took  its  place  ; 
And    his  voice,  like  a  mad  dog 

choking  bark, 
At  the  steady  whole  of  the  Judge  s 

face  — 

Died.    Forth  John's  soul  flared  into 
the  dark. 

SUBJOINETH  THE  ABBOT  DEODAET. 

God  help  all  poor  souls  lost  in  the 
dark! 


HOLY-CROSS    DAY. 

ON  WHICH  THE  JEWS  WERE  FORCE  C 
TO  YTTEND  AN  ANNUAL  CHRIS 
TIAN  SERMON  IN  ROME. 

f "  Now  was  come  about  Holy-Cross  Day 
ana  now  must  my  lord  preach  his  first  ser 
mon  to  the  Jews  :  as  it  was  of  old  cared  fo 
in  the  merciful  bowels  of  the  Church,  that 


o  to  speak,  a  crumb,  at  least,  from  her  con- 
picuous  table  here  in  Rome,  should  be, 
hough  but  once  yearly,  cast  to  the  famish- 
ng  dogs,  under-trampled  and  bespitten-upon 
>eneath  the  feet  of  the  guests.  And  a  mov- 
ng  sight  in  truth,  this,  of  so  many  of  the 
oesotted  blind  restif  and  ready -to-perish  He- 
>rews!  now  maternally  brought  —  nay  (for 
le  saith,  '  Compel  them  to  come  in '),  haled, 
as  it  were,  by  the  head  and  hair,  and  against 
,heir  obstinate  hearts,  to  partake  of  the 
icavenly  grace.  What  awakening,  what 
.triving  with  tears,  what  working  of  a  yeasty 
sonscience!  Nor  was  my  lord  wanting  to 
limself  on  so  apt  an  occasion ;  witness  the 
abundance  of  conversions  which  did  inconti- 
nently reward  him :  though  not  to  my  lord 
be  altogether  the  glory."  —  Diary  by  the 
Via/top's  Secretary,  1600.] 

What  the  Jews  really  said,  on  thus  being 
driven  to  church,  was  rather  to  this  effect :  — 


FEE,  faw,  fum  !  bubble  and  squeak  ! 
Blessedest  Thursday's  the  fat  of  the 

week. 

Rumble  and  tumble,  sleek  and  rough, 
Stinking  and  savory,  smug  and  gruff, 
Take  the  church-road,  for  the  bell's 

due  chime 

Gives  us  the  summons  —  'tis  sermon- 
time  ! 


n. 
Barnabas  ! 


Boh,  here's  Barnabas !  Job,  that's 
you  ? 

Up  stumps  Solomon  —  bustling  too  ? 

Shame,  man!  greedy  beyond  your 
years 

To  handsel  the  bishop's  shaving- 
shears  ? 

Fair  play's  a  jewel !  Leave  friends 
in  the  lurch  ? 

Stand  on  a  line  ere  you  start  for  the 
church ! 

in 

Higgledy  piggledy,  packed  we  lie, 
Rats  in  a  hamper,  swine  in  a  sty, 
Wasps  in  a  bottle,  frogs  in  a  sieve, 
Worms  in  a  carcass,  fleas  in  a  sleeve- 
Hist !   square  shoulders,  settle  your 

thumbs 
And  buzz  for  the  bishop  — here   he 

comes. 


Bow,   wow,   wow  —  a   bone   for  the 

dog! 
I  liken  his  Grace  to  an  scorned  hog. 


168 


HOLY  CROSS   DAY. 


What,  a  boy  at  his  side,  with  the 
bloom  of  a  lass, 

To  help  and  handle  my  lord's  hour- 
glass ! 

Didst  ever  behold  so  lithe  a  chine  ? 

His  cheek  hath  laps  like  a  fresh- 
singed  swine. 


Aaron's  asleep — shove  hip  to  haunch, 
Or  somebody  deal  him  a  dig  in  the 

paunch ! 
Look  at  the  purse  with  the  tassel  and 

knob, 
And  the  gown   with  the  angel  and 

thingumbob ! 
What's  he  at,  quotha?   reading  his 

text ! 
Now  you've  his  curtsey  —  and  what 

comes  next  ? 


See   to   our   converts  —  you  doomed 

black  dozen  — 
No    stealing    away  —  nor     cog     nor 

cozen  ! 
You  five,  that  were  thieves,  deserve 

it  fairly  ; 
You  seven,  that  were  beggars,  will 

live  less  sparely ; 
You  took  your  turn  and  dipped  in  the 

hat, 
Got  fortune  —  and  fortune  gets  you  ; 

mind  that ! 


Give  your  first  groan  —  compunction's 
at  work  ; 

And  soft !  from  a  Jew  you  mount  to 
a  Turk. 

Lo,  Micah, —  the  selfsame  beard  on 
chiu 

He  was  four  times  already  converted 
in  ! 

Here's  a  knife,  clip  quick  —  it's  a  sign 
of  grace  — 

Or  he  ruins  us  all  with  his  hanging- 
face. 

VIII. 

Whom  now  is  the  bishop  a-leering  at  ? 
I  know  a  point  where  his  text  falls 

pat. 
I'll  tell  him  to-morrow,  a  word  just 

now 

Went  to  my  heart  and  made  me  vow 
To  meddle  no  more  with  the  worst  of 

trades  : 
1/jt  somebody  else  play  his  serenades  ! 


Groan  all  together  now,  whee  —  hee 

—  hee ! 
It's  a-work,  it's  a-work,  ah,  woe  is 

me  ! 
It  began,  when  a  herd  of  us,  picked 

and  placed, 
Were    spurred    through    the    Corso, 

stripped  to  the  waist  ; 
Jew  brutes,  with   sweat   and   blood 

well  spent 
To  usher  in  worthily  Christian  Lent. 

x. 

It  grew,  when  the  hangman  entered 
our  bounds, 

Yelled,  pricked  us  out  to  his  church 
like  hounds  : 

It  got  to  a  pitch,  when  the  hand  in- 
deed 

Which  gutted  my  purse,  would  throt- 
tle my  creed  : 

And  it,  overflows,  when,  to  even  the 
odd, 

Men  I  helped  to  their  sins,  help  TCI  to 
their  God. 


But  now,  while  the  scapegoats  leave 

our  flock, 
And  the  rest  sit  silent  and  count  the 

clock, 
Since  forced  to  muse  the  appointed 

time 
On  these  precious   facts   and   truths 

sublime,  — 
Let   us    fitly    employ  it,    under    our 

breath, 
In  saying  Ben  Ezra's  Song  of  Death. 


For  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra,  the  night  he 

died, 

Called  sons  and  sons'  sons  to  his  side, 
And  spoke,   "This   world   has   been 

harsh  and  strange  ; 
Something  is  wrong  :  there  needeth  a 

change. 
But  what,  or  where?  at  the  last  or 

first  ? 
In  one  point  only  we  sinned,  at  worst. 


"  The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  Jacob 

yet, 

And  again  in  his  border  see  Israel 
set. 


AMPHIBIAN. 


169 


When  Jndah  beholds  Jerusalem, 

The  stranger-seed  shall  be  joined  to 
them  : 

To  Jacob's  House  shall  the  Gentiles 
cleave, 

So  the  Prophet  saith  and  his  sons  be- 
lieve. 

XIV. 

•  "Ay,  the  children  of  the  chosen  race 

Shall  carry  and  bring  them  to  their 

place  : 

\  In  the  land  of  the  Lord  shall  lead  the 
same, 

Bondsmen  and  handmaids.  Who 
shall  blame, 

When  the  slaves  enslave,  the  op- 
pressed ones  o'er 

The  oppressor  triumph  for  evermore  ! 


"  God  spoke,  and  gave  us  the  word  to 

keep : 

Bade  never  fold  the  hands  nor  sleep 
'Mid  a  faithless  world,  —at  watch  and 

ward, 
Till    Christ   at  the   end  relieve    our 

guard 
By  his  servant  Moses  the  watch  was 

set : 
Though  near  upon  cock-crow,  we  keep 

it  yet. 

xvi. 
"  Thou  !  if  thou  wast  he,  who  at  inid- 

watch  came, 
By  the  starlight,  naming  a  dubious 

name ! 
And  if,  too  heavy  with   sleep  —  too 

rash 

With  fear  — O  thou,  if  that  martyr- 
gash 

Fell  on  thee  coining  to  take  thine  own, 
And   we  gave  the  Cross,  when  we 

owed  the  Throne  — 


"Thou    art    the     Judge.     We     are 

bruised  thus. 
But,  the  Judgment  over,  join  sides 

with  us  ! 
Thine  too  is  the  cause  !  and  not  more 

thine 
Than  ours,  is  the  work  of  these  dogs 

and  swine, 
W'hose  life  laughs  through  and  spits 

at  their  creed, 
Who  maintain  thee  in  word,  and  defy 

thee  in  deed  ! 


We    withstood    Christ    then?     Be 

mindful  how 

At  least  we  withstand  Barabbas  now  ! 
Was  our  outrage  sore  ?    But  the  worst 

we  spared, 
To  have  called  these  —Christians,  had 

we  dared  ! 
Let  defiance  to  them  pay  mistrust  of 

thee, 
And  Rome  make  amends  for  Calvary  ! 


"  By  the  torture,  prolonged  from  age 
to  age, 

By  the  infamy,  Israel's  heritage, 

By  the  Ghetto's  plague,  by  the  garb's 
disgrace, 

By  the  badge  of  shame,  by  the  felon's 
place, 

By  the  branding-tool,  the  bloody 
whip, 

And  the  summons  to  Christian  fellow- 
ship,— 

xx. 

"  We  boast  our  proof  that  at  least  the 

Jew 
Would  wrest  Christ's  name  from  the 

Devil's  crew. 

Thy  face  took  never  so  deep  a  shade 
But  we  f;  night  them  in  it,  God  our 

aid! 
A  trophy  to  bear,  as  we  march,  thy 

band 
South,  East,  and  on  to  the  Pleasant 

Land!" 
[The   late   Pope  abolished  this  bad 

business  of  the  sermon.  —  R.  B.] 


AMPHIBIAN. 


THE  fancy  I  had  to-day, 
Fancy  which  turned  a  fear  ! 

I  swam  far  out  in  the  bay, 
Since    waves   laughed   warm 
clear. 


I  lay  and  looked  at  the  sun, 
The  noon-sun  looked  at  me  : 

Between  us  two,  no  one 
Live  creature,  that  I  could  see. 


and 


170 


AMPHIBIAN. 


Yes  !    There  came  floating  by 
Me,  who  lay  floating  too, 

Such  a  strange  butterfly  ! 
Creature  as  dear  as  new  : 


Because  the  membraned  wings 
So  wonderful,  so  wide. 

So  sun-suffused,  were  things 
Like  soul  and  naught  beside. 


A  handbreadth  over  head  ! 

All  of  the  sea  tny  own, 
It  owned  the  sky  instead  ; 

Both  of  us  were  alone. 


I  never  shall  join  its  flight, 
For  naught  buoys  flesh  in  air. 

If  it  touch  the  sea  —  good-night ! 
Death  sure  and  swift  waits  there. 


Can  the  insect  feel  the  better 
For  watching  the  uncouth  play 

Of  limbs  that  slip  the  fetter, 
Pretend  as  they  were  not  clay  ? 


Undoubtedly  I  rejoice 
That  the  air  comports  so  well 

With  a  creature  which  had  the  choice 
Of  the  land  once.    Who  can  tell  ? 


What  if  a  certain  soul 

Which  early  slipped  its  sheath, 
And  has  for  its  home  the  whole 

Of  heaven,  thus  look  beneath, 


Thus  watch  one  who,  in  the  world, 
Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way, 

Nor  wishes  the  wings  unfurled 
That  sleep  in  the  worm,  they  say  ? 


But  sometimes  when  the  weather 
Is  blue,  and  warm  waves  tempt 

To  free  one's  self  of  tether, 
And  try  a  life  exempt 


From  worldly  noise  and  dust, 
In  the  sphere  which  overbrims 

With   passion    and    thought,  —  why, 

just 
Unable  to  fly,  one  swims  ! 


By  passion  and  thought  upborne, 
One  smiles  to  one's   self — "They 
fare 

Scarce  better,  they  need  not  scorn 
Our  sea,  who  live  in  the  air  !  " 


Emancipate  through  passion 
And  thought,  with  sea  for  sky, 

We  substitute,  in  a  fashion, 
For  heaven  —  poetry  : 


Which  sea,  to  all  intent, 
Gives  flesh  such  noon-disport 

As  a  finer  element 
Affords  the  spirit-sort. 


Whatever  they  are,  we  seem  : 
Imagine  the  thing  they  know  ; 

All  deeds  they  do,  we  dream  ; 
Can  heaven  be  else  but  so  ? 


And  meantime,  yonder  streak 
Meets  the  horizon's  verge  ; 

That  is  the  land,  to  seek 
If  we  tire  or  dread  the  surge  ; 


Land  the  solid  and  safe  — 
To  welcome  again  (confess  !) 

When,  high  and  dry,  we  chafe 
The  body,  and  don  the  dress. 


XIX. 

Does  she  look,  pity,  wonder 
At  one  who  mimics  flight, 

Swims  —  heaven  above,  sea  under, 
Yet  always  earth  in  sight  ? 


ST.    MARTIN'S  SUMMER. 


ST.    MARTIN'S   SUMMER. 


No  protesting,  dearest ! 
Hardly  kisses  even  I 

Don't  we  both  know  how  it  ends  ? 
How  the  greenest  leaf  turns  searest  ? 
Bluest  outbreak  —  blankest  heaven  ? 
Lovers  —  friends  ? 


You  would  build  a  mansion, 
I  would  weave  a  bower 

—  Want  the  heart  for  enterprise. 
"Walls  admit  of  no  expansion  : 
Trellis-work  may  haply  flower 
Twice  the  size. 


What  makes  glad  Life's  Winter  ? 
New  buds,  old  blooms  after. 

Sad  the  sighing  "  How  suspect 
Beams  would  ere  mid-autumn  splin- 
ter, 

Kooftree  scarce  support  a  rafter, 
Walls  lie  wrecked  ?  " 


You  are  young,  my  princess  ! 
I  am  hardly  older  : 

Yet  —  I  steal  a  glance  behind  ! 
Dare  I  tell  you  what  convinces 
Timid  me  that  you,  if  bolder, 
Bold  —  are  blind  ? 


Where  we  plan  our  dwelling 
Glooms  a  graveyard  surely  ! 
Headstone,  footstone  moss  may 

drape,  — 

Name,  date,  violets  hide  from  spell- 
ing.— 

But,  though  corpses  rot  obscurely, 
Ghosts  escape' 


Ghosts  !    O  breathing  Beauty, 
Give  my  frank  word  pardon  ! 
What     if     I  —  somehow,     some- 
where — 

Pledged  my  soul  to  endless  duty 
Many  a  time  and  oft  ?    Be  hard  on 
Love  —  laid  there  ? 


Nay,  blame  grief  that's  fickle, 
Time  that  proves  a  traitor, 
Chance,  change,  all  that  purpose 

warps,  — 

Death  who  spares  to  thrust  the  sickle, 
Which  laid  Love  low,  through  flow- 
ers which  later 
Shroud  the  corpse  ! 


And  you,  my  winsome  lady, 
Whisper  me  with  like  frankness  ! 

Lies  nothing  buried  long  ago  ? 
Are  yon  —  which  shimmer  mid  what's 

shady 

Where  moss  and  violet  run  to  rank- 
ness — 
Tombs,  or  no  ? 


Who  taxes  you  with  murder  ? 
My  hands  are  clean  —  or  nearly  ! 
Love    being  mortal  needs   must 

pass. 

Repentance?   Nothing  were  absurder. 
Enough  :   we  felt   Love's  loss   se- 
verely ; 
Though  now — alas  ! 


Love's  corpse  lies  quiet  therefore, 
Only  Love's  ghost  plays  truant, 
And  warns  us  have  in  wholesome 

awe 

Durable  raansionry ;  that's  wherefore 
I  weave  but  trellis-work,  pursuant 
—  Life,  to  law. 


The  solid,  not  the  fragile, 
Tempts  rain  and  hail  and  thunder. 
If  oower  stand  firm  at  autumn's 

close, 
Beyond  my  hope,  —  why,  boughs  were 

agile ; 
If  bower  fall  flat,  we  scarce  need 

wonder 
Wreathing — rose  ! 


So,  truce  to  the  protesting. 
So,  muffled  be  the  kisses  ! 

For,  would  we  but  avow  the  truth, 
Sober  is  genuine  joy.    No  jesting! 
Ask  else  Penelope,  Ulysses  — 
Old  in  youth  ! 


172 


JAMES  LEE'S    WIFE. 


For  why  should  ghosts  feel  angered  ? 
Let  all  their  interference 

Be  faint  march-music  in  the  air  ! 
"  Up !    Join  the  rear  of  us  the  van- 
guard ! 

Up,  lovers,  dead  to  all  appearance, 
Laggard  pair ! " 


The  while  you  clasp  me  closer, 
The  while  I  press  you  deeper, 
As    safe     we     chuckle,  —  under 

breath, 

Yet  all  the  slyer,  the  jocoser,  — 
"  So,  life  can  boast  its  day,  like  leap- 
year, 
Stolen  from  death  !  " 


Ah  me  —  the  sudden  terror  ! 
Hence  quick  —  avaunt,  avoid  me, 
You  cheat,  the  ghostly  flesh-dis- 
guised ! 
Nay,  all  the  ghosts  in  one !    Strange 

error  ! 
So,  'twas  Death's  self  that  clipped 

and  coyed  me, 
Loved  —  and  lied  ! 


Ay,  dead  loves  are  the  potent ! 
Like  any  cloud  they  used  you, 
Mere   semblance   you,    but   sub- 
stance they ! 
Build  we  no  mansion,  weave  we  no 

tent! 
Mere  flesh  —  their  spirit  interfused 

you! 
Hence,  I  say ! 


XVII. 

All  theirs,  none  yours  the  glamour  ! 
Theirs   each   low  word   that    won 

me, 
Soft  look  that  found  me  Love's, 

and  left 
What  else  but  you  —  the  tears   and 

clamor 
That's  all  your  very  own  !    Undone 

me  — 
Ghost-bereft ! 


JAMES   LEE'S  WIFE. 
I. 

JAMES  LEE'S  WIFE  SPEAK8  AT 
THE  WINDOW. 


AH,  Love,  but  a  day, 

And  the  world  has  changed  ! 
The  sun's  away, 

And  the  bird  estranged  ; 
The  wind  has  dropped, 

And  the  sky's  deranged  : 
Summer  has  stopped. 


Look  in  my  eyes  ! 

Wilt  thou  change  too  ? 
Should  I  fear  surprise  ? 

Shall  I  find  aught  new 
In  the  old  and  dear, 

In  the  good  and  true, 
With  the  changing  year  ? 


Thou  art  a  man, 
But  I  am  thy  love. 

For  the  lake,  its  swan  ; 
For  the  dell,  its  dove  ; 

And  for  thee  —  (oh,  haste  !) 
Me  to  bend  above, 

Me,  to  hold  embraced. 


II. 

BY  THE  FIRESIDB. 

I. 

Is  all  our  fire  of  shipwreck  wood, 

Oak  and  pine  ? 
Oh,  for  the  ills  half-understood, 

The  dim  dead  woe 

Long  ago 

Befallen  this  bitter  coast  of  France  ! 
Well,  poor  sailors  took  their  chance  ; 

I  take  mine. 


A  ruddy  shaft  our  fire  must  shoot 

O'er  the  sea ; 
Do  sailors  eye  the  casement  —  mute 

Drenched  and  stark, 

From  their  bark  — 


JAMES  LEE  S    WIFE 


And  envy,  gnash  their  teeth  for  hate 
O'  the  warm  safe  house  and  happy 

freight 
—  Thee  and  me  ? 


God  help  you,  sailors,  at  your  need  ! 

Spare  the  curse  ! 
For  some  ships,  safe  in  port  indeed, 

Rot  and  rust, 

Run  to  dust, 
All  through  worms  i'  the  wood,  which 

crept, 

Gnawed   our   hearts    out   while   we 
slept : 

That  is  worse. 


Who  lived  here  before  us  two  ? 

Old-world  pairs. 
Did  a  woman  ever  —  would  I  knew  !  — 

Watch  the  man 

With  whom  began 
Love's  voyage  full-sail,  —  (now,  gnash 

your  teeth  ! ) 
When  planks  start,  open  hell  beneath 

Unawares  ? 


III. 

IN    THE    DOORWAY. 


THE  swallow  has  set  her  six  young  on 

the  rail, 

And  looks  seaward  : 
The  water's  in  stripes  like  a  snake, 

olive-pale 
To  the  leeward,  — 
On  the  weather-side,  black,  spotted 

white  with  the  wind. 
"  Good  fortune  departs,  and  disaster's 

behind,"  — 
Hark,  the  wind  \yith  its  wants  and  its 

infinite  wail ! 


Our  fig-tree,  that  leaned  for  the  salt- 
ness,  has  furled 
Her  five  fingers, 
Each  leaf  like  a  hand  opened  wide  to 

the  world 
Where  there  lingers 


No  glint  of  the  gold,  Summer  sent  for 

her  sake  : 
How  the  vines  writhe  in  rows,  each 

impaled  on  its  stake  ! 
My  heart  shrivels  up  and  my  spirit 

shrinks  curled. 


Yet  here  are  we  two  ;  we  have  love, 

house  enough, 
With  the  field  there, 

This  house  of  four  rooms,  that  field 

red  and  rough, 
Though  it  yield  there, 

For  the  rabbit  that  robs,   scarce   a 
blade  or  a  bent ; 

If  a  magpie  alight  now,  it  seems  an 
event ; 

And  they  both  will  be  gone  at  Novem- 
ber's rebuff. 


But 


but 


rv. 

why   must    cold    spread  ? 
wherefore  bring  change 
To  the  spirit, 
God  meant  should  mate  his  with  an 

infinite  range, 
And  inherit 
His  power  to  put  life  in  the  darkness 

and  cold  ? 
O,  live  and  love  worthily,  bear  and 

be  bold  ! 

Whom  Summer  made  friends  of,  let 
Winter  estrange  ! 


IV. 
ALONG   THE  BEACH. 

I. 

I  WILL  be  quiet  and  talk  with  you, 
And  reason  why  you  are  wrong. 

You  wanted  my  love  —  is  that  much 
true? 

And  so  I  did  love,  so  I  do  : 
What  has  come  of  it  all  along  ? 


I  took  you  —  how  could  I  otherwise  ? 

For  a  world  to  me,  and  more  ; 
For  all,  love  greatens  and  glorifies 
Till    God's   a -glow,    to    the    loving 
eyes, 

In  what  was  mere  earth  before. 


A 

-\  —  i  <•                  '                                                                             —  M1  1     h^ 

»         174                                        JAMES  LEE'S    WIFE. 

in. 

Which  will  turn  up  next  in  a  laughing 

Yes,  earth  —  yes,  mere  ignoble  earth  ! 
Now  do  I  misstate,  mistake  ? 

eye, 
And    why    should    you    look    be- 

Do I  wrong  your  weakness  and  call 

yond?" 

,                   it  worth  ? 

•J     V» 

Expect  all  harvest,  dread  no  dearth, 

Seal  my  sense  up  for  your  sake  ? 

rv. 

V. 

O  Love,  Love,  no,  Love  !  not  so,  in- 

ON THE  CLIFF. 

deed 

You  were  just  weak  earth,  I  knew  : 

I. 

With  much  in  you  waste,  with  many 

I  LEANED  on  the  turf, 

a  weed, 
And  plenty  of  passions  run  to  seed, 
But  a  little  good  grain  too. 

I  looked  at  a  rock 
Left  dry  by  the  surf  ; 
For  the  turf,  to  call  it  grass  were  to 

mock  : 

•y" 

Dead  to  the  roots,  so  deep  was  done 

And  such  as  you  were,  I  took  you  for 

The  work  of  the  summer  sun. 

mine  : 

Did  not  you  find  me  yours, 
To  watch   the   olive   and    wait   the 

n. 
And  the  rock  lay  flat 

vine, 

As  an  anvil's  face  : 

And  wonder  when  rivers  of  oil  and 
wine 

No  iron  like  that  ! 
Baked  dry  ;  of  a  weed,  of  a  shell,  no 

Would  flow,  as  the  Book  assures  ? 

trace  : 
Sunshine  outside,  but  ice  at  the  core, 

Death's  altar  by  the  lone  shore. 

VI. 

Well,  and  if  none  of  these  good  things 
came, 

in. 
On  the  turf,  sprang  gay 

What  did  the  failure  prove  ? 
The  man  was  my  whole  world,  all 

With  his  films  of  blue, 
No  cricket,  I'll  say, 

the  same, 

But  a  warhorse,  barded   and  chan- 

With   his   flowers    to  praise    or   his 

froned  too, 

weeds  to  blame, 

The  gift   of  a   quixote-mage  to   hig 

And,  either  or  both,  to  love. 

knight, 

Real  fairy,  with  wings  all  right. 

VII. 

IV. 

Yet  this  turns  now  to  a  fault  —  there  ! 

On  the  rock,  they  scorch 

there  ! 

Like  a  drop  of  fire 

That  I  do  love,  watch  too  long, 

From  a  brandished  torch, 

And  wait  too  well,  and  weary  and 

Fall  two  red  fans  of  a  butterfly  : 

wear  ; 
And  'tis  all  an  old  story,  and  my  de- 

No turf,  no  rock,  —  in  their  ugly  stead, 
See,  wonderful  blue  and  red  ' 

spair 

Fit  subject  for  some  new  song  : 

V. 

Is  it  not  so 

With  the  minds  of  men  ? 

VIII. 

The  level  and  low,                                            t 

n 

r>       "  How  the  light,  light  love,  he  has 

The  burnt  and  bare,  in  themselves  ;         »]  " 

wings  to  fly 

but  then 

At  suspicion  of  a  bond  : 

With  such  a  blue  and  red  grace,  not 

My  wisdom  has  bidden  your  pleasure 

theirs, 

good-by, 

Love  settling  unawares  ! 

el 

0 

V 

7rn«-i  *                                                           «  (-»  rW 

H_J  <r~(  i                                                                                                  t  ^—  i  1——^ 

JAMES   LEE'S    WIFE. 


175 


VI. 

READING  A  BOOK,  UNDER  THE 
CLIFF. 


"  STILL  ailing,  Wind  ?    Wilt  be  ap- 
peased or  no  ? 
Which  needs  the  other's  office,  thou 

or  I? 
Dost  want  to  be  disburthened  of  a 

woe, 

And  can,  in  truth,  my  voice  untie 
Its  links,  and  let  it  go  ? 


"Art  thou   a  dumb,  wronged  thing 

that  would  be  righted, 
Intrusting  thus  thy  cause  to  me? 

Forbear ! 
No  tongue  can  mend  such  pleadings  ; 

faith,  requited 

With  falsehood,  —  love,  at  last  aware 
Of  scorn,  —  hopes,  early  blighted,  — 

in. 
"We  have  them  ;  but  I  know  not  any 

tone 

So  fit  as  thine  to  falter  forth  a  sor- 
row : 

Dost  think  men  would  go  mad  with- 
out a  moan, 

If  they  knew  any  way  to  borrow 
A  pathos  like  thy  own  ? 

IV. 

"  Which  sigh  wouldst/nock,  of  all  the 

sighs  ?    The  one 
So  long  escaping  from  lips  starved 

and  blue, 
That  lasts  while  on  her  pallet-bed  the 

nun 
Stretches    her    length ;     her    foot 

comes  through 
The  straw  she  shivers  on  ; 

v. 
"  You  had  not  thought  she  was  so 

tall :  and  spent, 

Her  shrunk  lids  open,  her  lean  fin- 
gers shut 
Close,  close,  their  sharp  and  livid  nails 

indent 
The   clammy   palm ;    then    all    is 

mute  : 
That  way,  the  spirit  went. 


"  Or  wouldst  thou  rather  that  I  un- 
derstand 
Thy  will  to  help  me  ?— like  the  doe 

I  found 

Once,  pacing  sad  this  solitary  strand. 
Who  would  not  take  my  food,  poor 

hound, 
But  whined,  and  licked  my  hand." 

VII. 

All  this,  and  more,  comes  from  some 

young  man's  pride 
Of  power  to  see,  — in  failure  and 

mistake, 
Relinquishment,   disgrace,   on   every 

side,  — 

Merely  examples  for  his  sake, 
Helps  to  his  path  untried  : 


Instances    he    must  —  simply   recog- 
nize? 
Oh,  more  than  so  !  —  must,  with  a 

learner's  zeal, 

Make  doubly  prominent,  twice  em- 
phasize, 

By  added  touches  that  reveal 
The  god  in  babe's  disguise. 


Oh,  he   knows  what  defeat  means, 

and  the  rest ! 
Himself  the  undefeated  that  shall 

be: 
Failure,  disgrace,  he  flings  them  you 

to  test,  — 

His  triumph,  in  eternity 
Too  plainly  manifest ! 


Whence,  judge  if  he  learn  forthwith 

what  the  wind 
Means    in    its    moaning  —  by    the 

happy  prompt 
Instinctive  way  of  youth,  I  mean  ; 

for  kind 

Calm  years,  exacting  their  accompt 
Of  pain,  mature  the  mind  : 


And  some  midsummer  morning,  at 

the  lull 

Just  about  daybreak,  as  he  looks 
across 

A  sparkling  foreign  country,  wonder- 
ful 


^£         176                                        JAMES  LEE'S    WIFE.                                                     If 

To  the  sea's  edge  for  gloom  and 

VII. 

gloss, 
Next  minute  must  annul,  — 

AMONG  THE  ROCKS. 

V     \9 

I.                                                                    •»:   « 

XII. 

Then,  when  the  wind  begins  among 

OH,  good  gigantic  smile  o'  the  brown 
old  earth, 

the  vines, 
So  low,  so  low,  what  shall  it  say 

This    autumn   morning  !    How   he 
sets  his  bones 

but  this  ? 

To  bask  i'  the  sun,  and  thrusts  out 

"  Here  is  the  change  beginning,  here 

knees  and  feet 

the  lines 
Circumscribe  beauty,  set  to  bliss 

For  the    ripple   to   run   over  in    its 
mirth  ; 

The  limit  time  assigns." 

Listening  the  while,  where  on  the 

heap  of  stones 

XIII. 

The  white  breast  of  the  sea-lark  twit- 

Nothing can  be  as  it  has  been  be- 

ters sweet. 

fore  ; 

Better,  so  call  it,  only  not  the  same. 

n. 

To  draw  one  beauty  into  our  hearts' 

That  is  the  doctrine,  simple,  ancient. 

core, 

true  ; 

And  keep  it  changeless  !  such  our 

Such   is  life's   trial,    as   old    earth 

claim  ; 

smiles  and  knows. 

So  answered,  —  Never  more  ! 

If  you  loved  only  what  were  worth 

your  love, 

Love  were   clear   gain,    and  wholly 

XIV. 

well  for  you  : 

Simple  ?    Why  this  is  the  old  woe  o' 

Make  the  low  nature  better  by  your 

the  world  ; 

throes  ! 

Tune,  to  whose  rise   and  fall   we 

Give  earth  yourself,  go  up  for  gain 

live  and  die. 

above  ! 

Rise  with  it,  then  !    Rejoice  that  man 

is  hurled 

From   change   to   change    unceas- 

ingly. 

His  soul's  wings  never  furled  ! 

VIII. 

XV. 

That's  a  new  question  ;  still  replies 

BESIDE  THE  DRAWING-BOARD. 

the  fact, 

Nothing  endures  :  the  wind  moans, 
saying  so  ; 

I. 
"  As    like    as    a    Hand    to    another 

We  moan   in   acquiescence  :   there's 
life's  pact, 
Perhaps  probation  —  do  7  know  ? 
God  does  :  endure  his  act  ! 

Hand  !  " 
Whoever  said  that  foolish  thing, 
Could  not  have  studied  to  understand 
The  counsels  of  God  in  fashioning, 

Out  of  the  infinite  love  of  his  heart, 

This  Hand,  whose  beauty  I  praise, 

XVI. 

apart 

Only,   for  man,    how  bitter   not   to 

From  the  world  of   wonder  left   to 

grave 

praise, 

On  his  soul's  hands'  palms  one  fair 

If  I  tried  to  learn  the  other  ways 

«  n                    good  wise  thing 

Of  love,  in  its  skill,  or  love,  in  its          T 

Just  as  he  grasped  it  !    For  himself, 
death's  wave  ; 

power. 
"As    like    as  a  Hand   to   another 

While  time  first  washes  —  ah,  the 

Hand  :  " 

sting  !  — 

Who  said  that,  never  took  his  stand, 

O'er  all  he'd  sink  to  save. 

Found  and  followed,  like  me,  an  hour, 

t)  l»                                                                                                                                                    J  I 

-1  —  lff-1  a                                                                                 *  f  r-sLl-P' 

1  If  haply  I  might  reproduce 
One  motive  of  the  mechanism." —  Page  177. 


JAMES  LEE'S    WIFE. 


177 


The  beauty  in  this,  —  how  free,  ho\v 

line 

To  fear,  almost,  —  of  the  limit-line  ! 
As  I  looked  at  this,  and  learned  and 

drew, 
Drew   and    learned,    and    looked 

again, 

While  fast  the  happy  ininutes  flew, 
Its  beauty  mounted  into  my  brain, 
And  a  fancy  seized  me  :  I  was  fain 
To  efface  my  "work,  begin  anew, 
Kiss  what  before  I  only  drew  ; 
Ay,  laying  the  red  chalk  'twixt  my 

lips, 
With  soul  to  help  if  the  mere  lips 

failed, 

I  kissed  all  right  where  the  draw- 
ing ailed, 
Kissed  fast  the  grace  that  somehow 

slips 
Still  from  one's  soulless  finger-tips. 


'Tis  a  clay  cast,  the  perfect  thing, 
From  Hand   live  once,   dead  long 

ago  : 
Princess-like  it  wears  the  ring 

To  fancy's  eye,  by  which  we  know 
That  here  at  length  a  master  found 
His  match,  a  proud  lone  soul  its 

mate, 
As  soaring  genius  sank  to  ground 

And  pencil  could  not  emulate 
The  beauty  in  this,  —  how  free,  how 

fine 

To  fear  almost !  —  of  the  limit-line. 
Long  ago  the  god,  like  me 
The  worm,  learned,  each  in  our  de- 
gree : 

Looked  and  loved,  learned  and  drew, 
Drew  and  learned  and  loved  again, 
While  fast  the  happy  minutes  flew, 

Till  beauty  mounted  into  his  brain 
And  on  the  finger  which  outvied 
His  art  he  placed  the  ring  that's 

there, 
Still  by  fancy's  eye  descried, 

In  token  of  a  marriage  rare  : 
For  him  on  earth,  his  art's  despair, 
For  him    in    heaven,  his    soul's    fit 
bride. 


Little  girl  with  the  poor  coarse  hand 
I  turned  from  to  a  cold  clay  cast  — 

I  have  my  lesson,  understand 
The  worth  of   flesh  and  blood  at 
last! 


Nothing  but  beauty  in  a  Hand  ? 
Because  he  could  not  change  the 

hue, 

Mend  the  lines  and  make  them  true 
To    this    which    met   his   soul's   de- 
mand,— 

Would  Da  Vinci  turn  from  you  ? 
I  hear  him  laugh  my  woes  to  scorn  — 
"  The  fool  forsooth  is  all  forlorn 
Because  the  beauty,  she  thinks  best, 
Lived  long  ago  or  was  never  born,  — 
Because  no  beauty  bears  the  test 
In  this  rough  peasant  Hand !    Con- 
fessed 

'  Art  is  null  and  study  void  ! ' 
So  sayest  thou  ?    So  said  not  I, 
Who  threw  the  faulty  pencil  by, 
And  years  instead  of  hours  employed, 
Learning  the  veritable  use 
Of  flesh  and  bone  and  nerve  beneath 
Lines  and  hue  of  the  outer  sheath, 
If  haply  I  might  reproduce 
One  motive  of  the  mechanism, 
Flesh  and  bone  and  nerve  that  make 
The  poorest  coarsest  human  hand 
An  object  worthy  to  be  scanned 
A  whole  life  long  for  their  sole  sake. 
Shall  earth  and  the  cramped  moment- 
space 

Yield  the  heavenly  crowning  grace  ? 
Now  the  parts  and  then  the  whole  ! 
Who  art  thou,  with  stinted  soul 
And  stunted  body,  thus  to  cry 
'I  love, —  shall  that  be  life's   strait 

dole  ? 

I  must  live  beloved  or  die  ! ' 
This  peasant  hand  that  spins  the  wool 
And  bakes  the  bread,  why  lives  it  on, 
Poor  and  coarse  with  beauty  gone,  — 
What     use     survives    the     oeauty? 
Fool ! " 

Go,  little  girl  with  the  poor  coarse 

hand  ! 
I  have  my  lesson,  shall  understand. 


IX. 
ON  DECK. 

i. 
THERE  is  nothing  to  remember  in  me, 

Nothing  I  ever  said  with  a  grace, 
Nothing  I  did  that  you  care  to  see, 

Nothing  I  was  that  deserves  a  place 
In  your  mind,  now  I  leave  you,  set 
you  free. 


RESPECTABILITY. 


Conceded  !    In  turn,  concede  to  me. 
Such  things  have  been  as  a  mutual 

flame. 
Your  soul's  locked  fast ;  out,  love  for 

a  key, 
You  might  let  it  loose,  till  I  grew 

the  same 

In  your  eyes,  as  in  mine  you  stand  : 
strange  plea ! 


For  then,  then,  what  would  it  matter 

to  me 
That  I  was  the  harsh,  ill-favored 

one  ? 
We  both  should  be  like  as  pea  and 

pea ; 

It  was  ever  so  since  the  world  be- 
gun : 
So,  let  me  proceed  with  my  reverie. 

rv. 
How  strange  it  were  if  you  had  all 

me, 
As  I  have  all  you  in  my  heart  and 

brain, 
You,  whose  least  word  brought  gloom 

or  glee, 

Who  never  lifted  the  hand  in  vain 
Will  hold  mine  yet,  from  over  the  sea ! 


Strange,  if  a  face,  when  you  thought 

of  me, 
Rose  like  your  own  face    present 

now, 
With  eyes  as  dear  in  their  due  de- 


gree, 
ch 


Much  such  a  mouth,  and  as  bright  a 

brow, 

Till  you  saw  yourself,  while  you  cried 
"  'Tis  She  !  " 


VI. 

Well,  you  may,  you  must,  set  down  to 

me 

Love  that  was  life,  life  that  was 
love  ; 

A  tenure  of  breath  at  your  lips'  de- 
cree, 

A  passion  to  stand  as  your  thoughts 
approve, 

A  rapture  to  fall  where    your    foot 
might  be. 


But  did  one  touch  of  such  love  for  me 

Come  in  a  word  or  a  look  of  yours, 

Whose  words  and  looks  will,  circling, 

flee 

Round  me  and  round  while  life  en- 
dures, — 

Could  I  fancy  "As  I  feel,  thus  feels 
He;" 

VIII. 

Why,  fade  you  might  to  a  thing  like 

me, 
And  your  hair  grow  these  coarse 

hanks  of  hair, 
Your  skin,  this   bark  of    a    gnarled 

tree,  — 
You  might  turn  myself  !  —  should 

I  know  or  care, 
When  I  should  be  dead  of  joy,  James 

Lee? 


RESPECTABILITY. 


DKAR,  had  the  world  in  its  caprice 
Deigned  to  proclaim  "  I  know  you 

both, 
Have     recognized     your    plighted 

troth, 
Am      sponsor     for     you :      live     in 

peace  ! "  — 

How  many  precious  months  and  years 
Of  vouth  had  passed,  that  speed  so 

fast, 

Before  we  found  it  out  at  last, 
The  world,  and  what  it  fears  ? 


How  much  of  priceless  life  were  spent 
With  men  that  every  virtue  decks, 
And  women  models  of  their  sex, 

Society's  true  ornament,  — 

Ere   we  dared   wander,   nights   like 

this, 
Through  wind  and  rain,  and  watch 

the  Seine, 
And  feel  the  Boulevart  break  again 

To  warmth  and  light  and  bliss  ? 


I  know !   the   world   proscribes   not 

love  ; 

Allows  my  finger  to  caress 
Your  lips'  contour  and  downiness, 

Provided  it  supply  a  glove. 


D1S  ALITER    VI SUM;    OR,   LE  BYRON  DE  NOS  JOURS.      179 


The  world's  good  word! — the  Insti- 
tute ! 

Guizot  receives  Montalembert ! 
Eh  ?    Down  the  court  three  lauip- 

ions  Hare  : 
Put  forward  your  best  foot ! 


DfS  ALITER  VISUM;   OR,  LE 
BYRON   DE  NOS  JOURS. 


STOP,  let  me  have  the  truth  of  that ! 

Is  that  all  true  ?    I  say,  the  day 
Ten  years  ago  when  both  of  us 

Met  on  a  morning,  friends  —  as  thus 
We   meet   this   evening,    friends   or 
what  ?  — 


Did  you  —  because  I  took  your  arm 
And   sillily   smiled,    "  A   mass   of 

brass 

That  sea  looks,  blazing  underneath  !  " 
While  up  the  cliff-road  edged  with 

heath, 

We    took   the    turns    nor   came    to 
harm  — 


Did  you  consider  "  Now  makes  twice 
Tliat  I  have  seen  her,  walked  and 

talked 
With    tliis    poor    pretty   thoughtful 

thing, 
Whose  worth  I  weigh  :  she  tries  to 

sing  ; 

Draws,  hopes  in  time  the  eye  grows 
nice  ; 


"  Reads  verse  and  thinks  she  under- 
stands ; 

Loves  all,  at  any  rate,  that's  great, 
Good,  beautiful ;  but  much  as  we 
Down  at  the  bath-house  love  the 

sea, 

Who  breathe  its  salt  and  bruise  its 
sands : 


'  While  ...  do  but  follow  the  fish- 
ing-gull 

That  flaps  and  floats  from  wave  to 
cave ! 


There's  the  sea-lover,  fair  my  friend  1 
What  then  ?    Be  patient,  mark  and 

mend ! 
Had  you  the  making  of  your  skull  ?  " 


And   did  you,   when   we   faced   the 

church 

With  spire  and  sad  slate  roof,  aloof 
From  human  fellowship  so  far, 

Where  a  few  graveyard  crosses  are, 
And     garlands     for    the    swallows' 
perch,  — 


Did  you  determine,  as  we  stepped 
O'er  the  lone  stone  fence,  "  Let  me 

get 

Her  for  myself,  and  what's  the  earth 
With    all    its    art,    verse,    music, 

worth  — 

Compared  with  love,  found,  gained, 
and  kept  ? 

vni. 

"  Schumann's  our  music-maker  now  ; 
Has  his  march-movement  youth  and 

mouth  ? 

Ingres's  the  modern  man  that  paints  ; 
Which    will    lean    on    me,    of    his 

saints  ? 
Heine  for  songs  ;  for  kisses,  how  ?  " 


And    did    you,    when    we    entered, 

reached 

The  votive  frigate,  soft  aloft 
Riding  on  air  this  hundred  years, 
Safe-smiling    at    old     hopes     and 

fears, — 

Did     you     draw     profit    while    she 
preached  ? 


Resolving, "  Fools  we  wise  men  grow  ! 

Yes,  I  could  easily  blurt  out  curt 
Some  question  that  might  find  reply 

As    prompt    in    her    stopped    lips, 

dropped  eye 
And  rush  of  red  to  cheek  and  brow  : 


1  Thus  were  a  match  made,  sure  and 

fast, 

'Mid  the  blue  weed-flowers  round 
the  mound 


180      DlS  ALITER    VISUM;     OR,   LE   BYRON  DE  NOS  JOURS. 


Where,  issuing,  we  shall  stand  and 

stay 

For  one  more  look  at  baths  and  bay, 
Sands,  sea-gulls,  and  the  old  church 
last  — 


"A  match  'twixt  me,  bent,  wigged, 

and  lamed, 
Famous,  however,  for   verse    and 

worse, 

Sure  of  the  Fortieth  spare  Arm-chair 
When  gout  and  glory  seat  me  there, 
So,  one  whose  love-freaks  pass  un- 
blamed,  — 

xm. 

"  And  this  young  beauty,  round  and 

sound 
As  a   mountain-apple,  youth    and 

truth 
With  loves  and  doves,  at  all  events 

With  money  in  the  Three  per  Cents  ; 
Whose  choice  of  me  would  seem  pro- 
found :  — 

xrv. 
"  She  might  take  me  as  I  take  her. 

Perfect  the  hour  would  pass,  alas  ! 
Climb  high,  love  high,  what  matter  ? 

Still, 
Feet,   feelings,   must   descend  the 

hill: 
An  hour's  perfection  can't  recur. 


"  Then  follows  Paris  and  full  time 
For  both  to   reason  :    '  Thus  with 

us,' 
She'll  sigh,  '  Thus  girls  give  body  and 

soul 
At  first  word,  think  they  gain  the 

goal, 

When    'tis    the    starting-place    they 
climb ! 


:' '  My  friend  makes  verse  and  gets 

renown ; 

Have  they  all  fifty  years,  his  peers  ? 
He  knows  the  world,  firm,  quiet,  and 

gay; 

Boys   will   become   as    much    one 

day  : 

They're  fools  ;  he  cheats,  with  beard 
less  brown. 


'  '  For  boys  say,  Love  me  or  I  die .' 

He  did  not  say,  The  truth  is,  youth 
I  want,  loho  am  old  and  know  too  much ; 
d  catch  youth:  lend  me  sight  and 

touch  ! 

Drop  heart's  blood  where  life's  wheels 
grate  dry  ! ' 


"  While  I  should  make  rejoinder  "  — 

(then 
It  was,  no  doubt,  you  ceased  that 

least 

Light  pressure  of  my  arm  in  yours) 
"  '  I  can  conceive  of  cheaper  cures 
For   a   yawning-fit   o'er   books    and 
men. 


"  '  What?    All  I  am,  was,  and  might 

be, 
All,  books  taught,  art  brought,  life's 

whole  strife, 

Painful  results  since  precious,  just 
Were  fitly  exchanged,  in  wise  dis- 
gust, 

For  two  cheeks  freshened  by  youth 
and  sea  ? 


"  '  All  for  a  nosegay  !  —  what   came 

first; 
With  fields  in  flower,  untried  each 

side  ; 
I  rally,  need  my  books  and  men, 

And  find  a  nosegay  :  '  drop  it,  then, 
No    match    yet    made    for    best    or 
worst !  " 


That  ended  me.   You  judged  the  porch 
We  left  by,  Norman  ;  took  our  look 

At  sea  and  sky  ;  wondered  so  few 
Find  out  the  place  for  air  and  view ; 

Remarked  the  sun  began  to  scorch  ; 

xxn. 

Descended,  soon  regained  the  baths, 
And    then,    good-by !      Years    ten 

since  then  : 
Ten  years  !    We  meet :  you  tell  me, 

now, 

By   a   window-seat   for  that  cliff- 
brow, 

On   carpet  -  stripes    for   those    sand- 
paths. 


CONFESSIONS. 


181 


XXIII. 

Now  I  may  speak  :  you  fool,  for  all 
Your  lore  !    WHO  made  things  plain 

in  vain  ? 
What  was  the  sea  for  ?    What,  the 

gray 

Sad  church,  that  solitary  day, 
Crosses  and   graves    and    swallows' 
call? 

XXIV. 

Was  there  naught  better  than  to  en- 
joy? 
No  feat  which,  done,  would  make 

time  break, 
And  let  us  pent-up  creatures  through 

Into  eternity,  our  due  ? 
No  forcing  earth  teach  heaven's  em- 
ploy ? 

XXV. 

No  wise  beginning,  here  and  now, 
What  cannot  grow  complete  (earth's 

feat) 
And  heaven  must  finish,  there  and 

then? 
No   tasting  earth's   true   food   for 

men, 
Its  sweet  in  sad,  its  sad  in  sweet  ? 


XXVI. 

No  grasping  at  love,  gaining  a  share 
O'  the  sole  spark  from  God's  life  at 

strife 

With  death,  so,  sure  of  range  above 
The  limits  here  ?    For  us  and  love, 
Failure ;    but,   when    God  fails,   de- 
spair. 

xxvn. 

This   you   call   wisdom  ?    Thus   you 

add 

Good  unto  good  again,  in  vain  ? 
You    loved,    with    body   worn    and 

weak  ; 

I  loved,  with  faculties  to  seek  : 
Were  both  loves  worthless  since  ill- 
cladT 

xxvni. 
Let  the  mere  star-fish  in  his  vault 

Crawl  in  a  wash  of  weed,  indeed, 
Rose-jacynth  to  the  finger-tips  : 
He,  whole  in  body  and  soul,  out- 
strips 
Man,  found  with  either  in  default. 


XXIX. 

But  what's  whole,  can   increase  no 

more, 

Is  dwarfed  and  dies,  since  here's  its 
sphere. 

The   Devil    laughed   at   you   in    his 

sleeve  ! 

You  knew  not?    That  I  well  be- 
lieve ; 

Or  you  had  saved  two  souls :   nay, 
four. 


For  Stephanie  sprained  last  night  her 

wrist, 
Ankle  or  something.    "  Pooh,"  cry 

you? 
At  any  rate  she  danced,  all  say, 

Vilely :  her  vogue  has  had  its  day. 
Here   comes   my   husband  from  'his 
whist. 


CONFESSIONS. 


WHAT  is  lie  buzzing  in  my  ears? 

"Now  that  I  come  to  die, 
Do  I  view  the    world   as  a  vale  of 
tears?" 

Ah ,  reverend  sir,  not  I ! 


What  I  viewed  there  once,  what  I 

view  again 

Where  the  physic  bottles  stand 
On   the   table's  edge,  —  is  a  suburb 

lane, 
With  a  wall  to  my  bedside  hand. 


That  lane  sloped,  much  as  the  bottles 

do, 

From  a  house  you  could  descry 
O'er  the  garden-wall  :  is  the  curtain 

blue 
Or  green  to  a  healthy  eye  ? 


To  mine,  it  serves  for  the  old  June 

weather 

Blue  above  lane  and  wall  ; 
And    that    farthest    bottle    labelled 

"Ether" 
Is  the  house  o'er-topping  all. 


^H  |r                           '                                                                                                                 ----  -    »    '1  —  ~K, 

«]  r»        182                                       THE  HOUSEHOLDER.                                                    *\  f> 

V. 

"  What,  and  is  it  really  you  again  ?  " 

At  a  terrace,  somewhat  near  the  stop- 
per, 

quoth  I  : 
"  I  again,   what  else  did  you  ex- 

There watched  for  me,  one  June, 

pect  ?  "  quoth  She. 

«  «•        A  girl  :  I  know,  sir,  it's  improper, 

~j    (s 

My  poor  mind's  out  of  tune. 

n. 

"  Never  mind,  hie  away  from  this  old 

VI. 

house  — 

,     Only,  there  was  a  way  .  .  .  you  crept 
Close  by  the  side,  to  dodge 
Eyes  in  the  house,  two  eyes  except  : 
They    styled    their    house     "  The 
Lodge." 

Every  crumbling  brick  embrowned 
with  sin  and  shame  ! 
Quick,    in    its    corners    ere    certain 
shapes  arouse  ! 
Let    them  —  every    devil    of    the 
night  —  lay  claim, 

vn. 

Make  and  rnend,  or  rap  and  rend,  for 

What  right  had  a  lounger  up  their 
lane? 
But,  by  creeping  very  close, 
With   the   good  wall's   help,  —  their 
eyes  might  strain 
And  stretch  themselves  to  Oes, 

me  !    Good-by  ! 
God  be  their  guard  from  disturbance 
at  their  glee, 
Till,  crash,  comes  down  the  carcass  in 
a  heap  !  "  quoth  I  : 
"  Nay,   but  there's   a  decency  re- 
quired !  "  quoth  She. 

vin. 

in. 

Yet  never  catch  her  and  me  together, 
As  she  left  the  attic,  there, 

"  Ah,  but  if  you  knew  how  time  has 
dragged,  days,  nights  ! 

By  the  rim   of   the   bottle   labelled 

All  the  neighbor-talk  with  man  and 

"Ether," 

maid  —  such  men  ! 

And  stole  from  stair  to  stair, 

All  the  fuss  and   trouble   of  street- 

sounds,  window-sights  : 

All  the  worry  of  flapping  door  and 

IX. 

echoing  roof  ;  and  then, 

And  stood  by  the  rose-wreathed  gate. 
Alas, 

All  the  fancies  .  .  .  Who  were  they 
had  leave,  dared  try 

We  loved,  sir  —  used  to  meet  : 

Darker  arts  that  almost  struck  de- 

How sad  and  bad  and  mad  it  was  — 

spair  in  me  ? 

But  then,  how  it  was  sweet  ! 

If  you  knew  but  how  I  dwelt  down 

here  !  "quoth  I  : 

"  And  was  I  so  better  off  up  there  ?  " 

quoth  She. 

IV. 

THE  HOUSEHOLDER. 

"  Help  and  get  it  over  !    Re-united  to 

his  icife 

i. 

(How  draw  up  the  paper  lets  the 

SAVAGE  I  was>  sitting  in  my  house, 
late,  lone  : 

parish-people  kno.\v  !) 
Lies  M.  or  N.,  departed  from  this  life, 

Dreary,  weary  with  the  long  day's 

Day  the  this  or  that,  month  and  year 

work  : 

the  so  and  so, 

Head  of  me,  heart  of  me,  stupid  as  a 

What  i'  the  way  of  final  flourish? 

stone  : 

Prose,  verse  ?    Try  ! 

1             Tongue-tied  now,  now   blasphem- 
ing like  a  Turk  ; 

Affliction  sore,  long  time  he  bore,  or, 
what  is  it  to  be  ? 

When,  in  a  moment,  just  a  knock, 

Till  God  did  please  to  grant  him  ease. 

call,  cry, 

Do  end  !  "  quoth  I  : 

Half  a  pang  and  all  a  rapture,  there 

"I    end    with  —  Love    is    all    and 

again  were  we  !  — 

Death  is  naught  !  "  quoth  She. 

J  U                                                                                                                                             J  l 

_j  s-\  s                                                                                                  i  L-s!_lJ--x 

CAVALIER   TUNES. 


183 


TRAY. 

SING  me  a  hero  !    Quench  my  thirst 
Of  soul,  ve  bards  ! 

Quoth  Bard  the  first : 
"Sir  Olaf,  the  good  knight,  did  don 
His  helm  and  eke  his  habergeon  "... 
Sir  Olaf  and  his  bard  !  — 

;'That  sin-scathed  brow"  (quoth 
Bard  the  second), 

:'That  eye  wide  ope  as  though  Fate 
beckoned 

My  hero  to  some  steep,  beneath 

Which  precipice  smiled  tempting 
Death"  .  .  . 

You  too  without  your  host  have  reck- 
oned ! 

"A    beggar-child"    (let's    hear   this 

third  !) 

"  Sat  on  a  quay's  edge  :  like  a  bird 
Sang  to  herself  at  careless  play, 
And  fell  into  the  stream.    '  Dismay 
Help,  you  the    standers-by !  '    None 

stirred. 

"  By-standers  reason,  think  of  wives 
And  children  ere  they  risk  their  lives. 
Over  the  balustrade  has  bounced 
A  mere  instinctive  dog,  and  pounced 
Plumb  on  the  prize.    '  How  well  he 
dives  I 

"  '  Up  he  comes  with  the  child,  see 

tight 
In   mouth,  alive  too,  clutched  from 

quite 

A  depth  of  ten  feet  — twelve,  I  bet  ! 
Good  dog  !    What,  off  again  ?  There's 

yet 
Another  child  to  save  ?    All  right ! 

"  '  How  strange  we  saw  no  other  fall 

It's  instinct  in  the  animal. 

Good  dog!    But  he's  a   long  wlnl 

under  : 
If  he  got  drowned  I  should  not  won 

der  — 
Strong  current,  that  against  the  wall 

'"Here  he  comes,  holds   in    inout 

this  time 
—  What  may  the   thing   be?    Wei 

that's  prime  ! 

Now,  did  you  ever  ?    Reason  reigns 
In  man  alone,  since  all  Tray's  pain 
Have  fished -the  child's   doll   from 

the  slime ! ' 


And  so,  atnid  the  laughter  gay, 
'rotted  my  hero  off,  —  old  Tray,  — 
Mil  somebody,  prerogatived 
Vith    reason,    reasoned :    '  Why    he 

dived, 
His  brain  would  show  us,  I  should 


''John,  go  and  catch  —  or,  if  seeds 

be, 

urchase  that  animal  for  me  ! 
}y  vivisection,  at  expense 
)f  half-an-hour  and  eighteen  pence, 
low  brain  secretes  dog's  soul,  we'll 

see  ! ' " 


CAVALIER  TUXES. 
I. 

MARCHING  ALONG. 


KENTISH  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament 

swing : 

And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  flourish  and  hon- 
est folk  droop, 
Marched     them     along,     fifty-score 

strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this 
song. 


God   for  King   Charles!    Pyrn    and 

such  carles 
To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their 

treasonous  paries ! 
Cavaliers,  up  !     Lips  from  the  cup, 
Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take 

nor  sup 
Till  you're  — 
(Chorus)  Marching  along,  tijty-score 

strong, 

Great  -  hearted     gentlemen, 
sinr/iny  this  song. 


in. 
Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies' 

knell. 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young 

Harry  as  well ! 


184 


C 'AVAL IE It   TUNES. 


England,     good     cheer !    Rupert     i:; 

near ! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not 

here 
(Chorus)  Marching  along,  fifty-score 

strong, 

Great  -  hearted     gentlemen, 
singing  this  song. 


Then,  God  for  King  Charles!    Pym 

and  his  snarls 

To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pes- 
tilent carles ! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your 

might : 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for 

the  fight, 
(Chorus)  March  we  along,  fifty-score 

strong, 

Great  -  hearted     gentlemen, 
singing  this  song. 


II. 

GIVE  A  ROUSE. 

I. 

KING  CHARLES,  and  who'll  do  him 

right  now  ? 
King  Charles,  and  who's  ripe  for  fight 

now? 
Give  a  rouse  :  here's,  in  hell's  despite 

now, 
King  Charles  ! 


Who  gave  me  the  goods  that  went 

since  ? 
Who  raised  me  the  house  that  sank 

once  ? 

Who  helped  me  to  gold  I  spent  since  ? 
Who  found  me  in  wine  you  drank 

once  ?  . 
(Chorus)  King    Charles,   and   who'll 

do  him  right  now  ? 
''     *        King    Charles,    and    who's 

ripe  for  fight  now? 
Give   a    rouse :    here's,    vi 

hell's  despite  now, 
Kina  Charles  ! 


To  whom  used  my  boy  George  quafi 

else, 

By  the  old  fool's  side  that  begot  him  ? 
For  whom  did  he  cheer  and  laugh  else, 
While  Noll's  damned  troopers  shot 

him? 
(Chorus)  King    Charles,    and   u-ho'll 

do  him  right  now  ? 
King    Charles,    and   who's 

ripe  for  fight  now  ? 
Give    a    rouse :    here's,    ii 

hell's  despite  now, 
King  Charles! 


III. 

BOOT  AND   SADDLE. 

I. 

BOOT,  saddle,  to  horse,  and  away  ! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens   to    blue   from   its    silvery 

gray, 

(Chorus)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and 
away  ! 


Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you'd 

say  ; 
Many's  the  friend  there,  will  listen 

and  pray, 
"  God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up 

the  lay  — 

(Chorus)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and 
away .'" 


Forty  miles  off,  like  a  roebuck  at  bav, 
Flouts  Castle  Braneepeth  the  Round' 

heads'  array  : 
Who  laughs,  "Good  fellows  ere  this, 

by  my  fay, 

(Chorus)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and 
away? " 

TV. 

Who  ?    My  wife  Gertrude  ;  that,  hon- 
est and  gay, 

Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrender- 
ing, "  Nay  ! 

I've  better  counsellors  ;  what  coun- 
sel they  ? 

(Chorus)  Boot,  saddle,  to  horse,  and 
away !  " 


After. —  Page  i8v 


AFTER. 


185 


BEFORE. 


LET  them  fight  it  out,  friend  !  things 

have  gone  too  far. 
God  must  judge  the  couple  :   leave 

them  as  they  are 
—  Whichever  one's  the  guiltless,  to 

his  glory, 
And  whichever  one  the  guilt's  with, 

to  my  story  ! 

n. 
Why,  you  would  not  bid  men,  sunk 

in  such  a  slough, 
Strike  no  arm  out  farther,  stick  and 

stink  as  now, 
Leaving  right  and  wrong  to  settle  the 

embroilment, 
Heaven  with  snaky  hell,  in  torture 

and  entoilment? 


Who's  the   culprit   of    them?    How 

must  he  conceive 
God  —  the  queen  he  caps  to,  laughing 

in  his  sleeve, 
"  'Tis  but  decent  to  profess  one's  self 

beneath  her  : 
Still,  one  must  not  be  too  much  in 

earnest,  either ! " 


Better  sin  the  whole  sin,  sure  that 

God  observes  ; 
Then  go  live  his  life  out !    Life  will 

try  his  nerves, 
When   the   sky,    which    noticed    all, 

makes  no  disclosure, 
And  the  earth  keeps  up  her  terrible 

composure. 


Let  him  pace  at  pleasure,  past  the 

walls  of  rose, 
Pluck  their  fruits  when  grape-trees 

graze  him  as  he  goes  ! 
For  he  'gins  to  guess  the  purpose  of 

the  garden, 
With  the  sly  mute  thing,  beside  there 

for  a  warden. 


What's  the  leopard-dog-thing,  con- 
stant at  his  side, 

A  leer  and  lie  in  every  eye  of  its  ob 
sequious  hide  ? 


When  will  come  an  end  to  all  the 

mock  obeisance, 
And  the  price  appear  that  pays  for 

the  misfeasance  ? 


So  much  for  the  culprit.    Who's  the 

martyred  man  ? 
et  him  bear  one  stroke  more,  for  be 

sure  he  cai;  t 
rle  that  strove  thus  evil's  lump  with 

good  to  leaven, 
Jet  him  give  his  blood  at  last  and  get 

his  heaven ! 


All  or  nothing,  stake  it !  Trusts  he 
God  or  no  ? 

Thus  far  and  no  farther  ?  farther  ?  be 
it  so  ! 

Sow,  enough  of  your  chicane  of  pru- 
dent pauses, 

Sage  provisos,  sub-intents,  and  saving- 
clauses  ! 

IX. 

Ah,  "  forgive  "  you  bid  him  ?    While 

God's  champion  lives. 
Wrong  shall  be  resisted  :  dead,  why, 

he  forgives. 
But  you  must  not  end  my  friend  ere 

you  begin  him  : 
Evil  stands  not  crowned  on   earth, 

while  breath  is  in  him. 


Once  more  — Will  the  wronger,  at 
this  last  of  all, 

Dare  to  say,  "  I  did  wrong,"  rising  in 
his  fall  ? 

No  ?  —  Let  go,  then  !  Both  the  fight- 
ers to  their  places ! 

While  I  count  three,  step  you  back  as 
many  paces ! 


AFTER. 

TAKE  the  cloak  from  his  face,  and  at 

first 
Let  the  corpse  do  its  worst ! 

How  he  lies  in  his  rights  of  a  man. 

Death  has  done  all  death  can. 
And,   absorbed  in   the   new  life   he 
leads, 

He  recks  not,  he  heeds 


186 


HERVE  RIEL. 


Nor  his  wrong  nor  my  vengeance  : 

both  strike 
On  his  senses  alike, 
And   are   lost   in    the    solemn    and 

strange 
Surprise  of  the  change. 

Ha,  what  avails  death  to  erase 

His  offence,  my  disgrace  ? 
1  would  we  were  boys  as  of  old 

In  the  field,  by  the  fold  : 
His  outrage,  God's  patience,  man's 
scorn 

Were  so  easily  borne  ! 

I  stand  here  now,  he  lies  in  his  place  : 
Cover  the  face ! 


HERVE   RIEL. 


ON  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen 

hundred  ninety-two, 
Did  the  English  fight  the  French,  — 
woe  to  France  ! 

And.  the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter- 
skelter  through  the  blue, 

Like  a  crowd  of  frightened  porpoises 

a  shoal  of  sharks  pursue, 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  St. 
Malo  on  the  Ranee, 

With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 


rTwas  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with 

the  victor  in  full  chase  ; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in 

his  great  ship,  Damfreville  ; 
Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all  ; 
And  they  signalled  to  the  place 
' '  Help  the  winners  of  a  race  ! 
Get  us  guidance,  give   us   harbor, 
take  us  quick  —  or,  quicker  still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will !  " 


Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out 

brisk  and  leapt  on  board  ; 
'Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have 
ships    like    these     to    pass?" 
laughed  they  : 

1  Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all 
the  passage  scarred  and  scored, 


Shall  the  '  Formidable  '  here  with  hei 

twelve  and  eighty  guns 
Think  to  make  the  river-mouth  by 

the  single  narrow  way, 
Trust  to  enter  where  'tis  ticklish  for  a 

craft  of  twenty  tons, 
And  with  flow  at  full  beside  ? 
Now,  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 
Reach  the  mooring  ?    Rather  say; 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  !  " 


Then  was  called  a  council  straight. 
Brief  and  bitter  the  debate  : 
"  Here's  the  English    at  our  heels ; 
would  you  have  them  take  in 
tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  linked 

together  stern  and  bow, 
For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound  ? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground  !  " 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech.) 
"  Not  a  minute  more  to  wait ! 
Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn 

the  vessels  on  tlie  beach  ! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 


v. 
word !  ' 


But    no    such 


"  Give  the 
word 

Was  ever  spoke  or  heard  ; 
For  up  stood,  for  out  stepped,  for  in 

struck  amid  all  these 
—  A  Captain  ?     A   Lieutenant  ?     A 

Mate  —  first,  second,  third  ? 
No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete  ! 
But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  pressed 

by  Tourville  for  the  fleet, 
A  poor  coasting-pilot  he,  Herve  Riel 
the  Croisickese. 


And,  "  What  mockery  or  malice  have 

we  here  ?  "  cries  Herve'  Riel : 
"  Are  you  mad ,  you  Maloums  ?  Are 

you  cowards,  fools,  or  rogues  ? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me 

who  took  the  soundings,  tell 
On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shal- 
low, every  swell 
'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve 

where  the  river  disembogues  ? 
Are  you  bought  by  English  gold  ?    Is 

it  love  the  lying's  for  ? 
Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 


HERVE  RIEL. 


187 


Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 
Entered  free  and  anchored  fast  at  the 

foot  of  Solidor. 

Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin   France? 
That    were    worse    than     fifty 

Hogues  ! 

Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth  ! 
Sirs,  believe  ine  there's  a  way  ! 
Only  let  me  l^ad  the  line, 
Have  the  biggest,  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  '  Formidable '  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 
And  I  lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a 

passage  I  know  well, 
Eight  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 
And    there    lay  them    safe    and 

sound ; 

And  if  one  ship  misbehave, 
—  Keel    so    much    as   grate    the 

ground, 

Why,  I've  nothing  but  my  life,— 
here's  my  head !  "  cries  Herve 
Eiel. 


Not  a  minute  more  to  wait. 

"  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great ! 

Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save 
the  squadron  !  "  cried  its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place  ! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace  ! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  the  passage  as  its  inch  of  way 
were  the  wide  sea's  profound  ! 

See,  safe  through  shoal  and  rock, 

How  they  follow  in  a  flock, 
Not  a  ship  that   misbehaves,   not   a 
keel  that  grates  the  ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief  ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past. 
All  are  harbored  to  the  last. 
And  just  as  Herv<5  Kiel  hollas  "  An- 
chor !  "  —  sure  as  fate, 
Up  the  English  come,  too  !ate  ! 

VIII. 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm  : 
They  see  the  green  trees  wave 
On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 

Hearts  that  bled  are  stanched  \\itl 
balm. 

"  Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 
Let  the  English  rake  the'  bay, 

Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 
A"\  they  cannonade  away  ! 


Neath  rampired  Solidor  pleasant  rid- 
ing on  the  Ranee  !  " 
Jow  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each 

Captain's  countenance  ! 
)ut  burst  all  with  one  accord, 
This  is  Paradise  for  Hell ! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank    the    man    that    did    the 

thing !  " 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

•Herve  Eiel ! " 
As  he  stepped  in  front  once  more, 
Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 
In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 


Then  said  Damfreville,  "  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips  : 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse  ! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have  !  or 
my  name's  not  Damfreville." 


Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  The  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laughed  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue  : 
"  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Eoads  to  Croisic 
Point,  what  is  it  but  a  run  ?  — 
Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may  — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore  — 
Come  !     A  good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wifi-.  whou 

I  call  the  Belle  Aurore  ! ' 
That  he   asked  and   that   he   got,— 
nothing  more. 


Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost : 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 
In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as 

it  befell  ; 

Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing-smack, 
In  memory  of  the  man  but  for  whom 

had  gone  to  wrack 
All   that   France   saved  from    the 

fight  whence  England  bore  the 

bell. 


188 


IN  A   BALCONY. 


Go  to  Paris  :  rank  on  rank 
Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 

On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank  ! 
You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you 
come  to  Herve  Kiel. 


So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 

Herve'  Kiel,  accept  my  verse  ! 

In  my  verse,  Herve  Kiel,  do  thou  once 

more 
Save    the    squadron,    honor    France, 

love  thy  wife  the  Belle  Aurore  ! 


IN  A  BALCOXY. 

CONSTANCE  and  NORBERT. 


Nor.    Now ! 

Con. 

Nor. 


Not  now  ! 

Give  me  them  again,  those  hands- 
Put  them  upon  my  forehead,  how  it  throbs  ! 
Press  them  before  my  eyes,  the  fire  comes  through  ! 
You  cruellest,  you  dearest  in  the  world, 
Let  me  !    The  Queen  must  grant  whate'er  I  ask  — 
How  can  I  gain  you  and  not  ask  the  Queen  ? 
There  she  stays  waiting  for  me,  here  stand  you  ; 
Some  time  or  other  this  was  to  be  asked  , 
Now  is  the  one  time  —  what  I  ask,  I  gain  : 
Let  me  ask  now,  Love  ! 

Con.  Do,  and  ruin  us  ! 

Nor.    Let  it  be  now,  Love  !    All  my  soul  breaks  forth. 
How  I  do  love  you  !    Give  my  love  its  way  ! 
A  man  can  have  but  one  life  and  one  death, 
One  heaven,  one  hell.     Let  me  fulfil  my  fate  — 
Grant  me  my  heaven  now  !    Let  me  know  you  mine, 
Prove  you  mine,  write  my  name  upon  your  brow, 
Hold  you  and  have  you,  and  then  die  away, 
If  God  please,  with  completion  in  my  souf! 

Con.    I  am  not  yours  then  ?    How  content  this  man  ! 
I  am  not  his —  who  change  into  himself, 
Have  passed  into  his  heart  and  beat  its  beats, 
Who  give  my  hands  to  him,  my  eyes,  my  hair, 
Give  all  that  was  of  me  away  to  him  — 
So  well,  that  now,  my  spirit  turned  his  own, 
Takes  part  with  him  against  the  woman  here, 
Bids  him  not  stumble  at  so  mere  a  straw 
As  caring  that  the  world  be  cognizant 
How  he  loves  her  and  how  she  worships  him. 
You  have  this  woman,  not  as  yet  that  world. 
Go  on,  I  bid,  nor  stop  to  care  for  me 
By  saving  what  I  cease  to  care  about, 
The  courtly  name  and  pride  of  circumstance  — 
The  name  you'll  pick  up  and  be  cumbered  with 
Just  for  the  poor  parade's  sake,  nothing  more  ; 
Just  that  the  world  may  slip  from  under  you  — 
Just  that  the  world  may  cry  "  So  much  for  him  — 
The  man  predestined  to  the  heap  of  crowns  : 
There  goes  his  chance  of  winning  one.  at  least !  " 

Nor.    The  world  ! 

Con.  You  love  it !    Love  me  quite  as  well,. 

And  see  if  I  shajl  pray  for  this  in  vain  ! 
Why  must  you  ponder  what  it  knows  or  thinks  ? 


IN  A  BALCONY. 


189 


Nor.    You  pray  for  —  what,  in  vain  ? 

Con.  Oh  my  heart's  heart, 

How  I  do  love  you,  Norbert !    That  is  right  : 
But  listen,  or  I  take  my  hands  away  ! 
You  say,  "  Let  it  be  now  :  "  you  would  go  now 
And  tell  the  Queen,  perhaps  six  steps  from  us, 
You  love  me  —  so  you  do,  thank  God  ! 

Nor.  Thank  God ! 

Con.    Yes,  Norbert,  —  but  you  fain  would  tell  your  love, 
And,  what  succeeds  the  telling,  ask  of  her 
My  hand.    Now  take  this  rose  and  look  at  it, 
Listening  to  me.    You  are  the  minister, 
The  Queen's  first  favorite,  nor  without  a  cause. 
To-night  completes  your  wonderful  year's-work 
(This  palace-feast  is  held  to  celebrate) 
Made  memorable  by  her  life's  success, 
The  junction  of  two  crowns,  on  her  sole  head, 
Her  house  had  only  dreamed  of  anciently  : 
That  this  mere  dream  is  grown  a  stable  truth, 
To-night's  feast  makes  authentic.    Whose  the  praise  ? 
Whose  genius,  patience,  energy,  achieved 
What  turned  the  many  heads  and  broke  the  hearts  ? 
You  are  the  fate,  your  minute's  in  the  heaven. 
Next  comes  the  Queen's  turn.  "  Name  your  own  reward  ! " 
With  leave  to  clinch  the  past,  chain  the  to-come, 
Put  out  an  arm  and  touch  and  take  the  sun 
And  fix  it  ever  full-faced  on  your  earth, 
Possess  yourself  supremely  of  her  life,  — 
You  choose  the  single  thing  she  will  not  grant ; 
Nay,  very  declaration  of  which  choice 
Will  turn  the  scale  and  neutralize  your  work  : 
At  best  she  will  forgive  you,  if  she  can. 
You  think  I'll  let  you  choose  —  her  cousin's  hand  ? 

Nor.    Wait.     First,  do  you  retain  your  old  belief 
The  Queen  is  generous,  —  nay,  is  just  ? 

Con.  There,  there, 

So  men  make  women  love  them,  while  they  know 
No  more  of  women's  hearts  than  .  .  .  look  you  here, 
You  that  are  just  and  generous  beside, 
Make  it  your  own  case  !    For  example  now, 
I'll  say  —  I  let  you  kiss  me,  hold  my  hands  — 
Why  ?  do  you  know  why  ?    I'll  instruct  yon,  then— • 
The' kiss,  because  you  have  a  name  at  c'ourt. 
This  hand  and  this,  that  yon  may  shut  in  each 
A  jewel,  if  you  please  to  pick  up  such. 
That's  horrible  ?    Apply  it  to  the  Queen  — 
Suppose  I  am  the  Queen  to  whom  you  speak. 
"  I  was  a  nameless  man  ;  you  needed  me  : 
Why  did  I  proffer  you  my  aid  ?  there  stood 
A  certain  pretty  cousin  at  your  side. 
Why  did  I  make  such  common  cause  with  you? 
Access  to  her  had  not  been  easy  else. 
You  give  my  labors  here  abundant  praise  ? 
'Faith,  labor,  which  she  overlooked,  grew  play. 
Ho\v  shall  your  gratitude  discharge  itself  ? 
Give  me  her  hand  !  " 

Nor.  And  still  I  urge  the  same. 

Is  the  Queen  just?  just  — generous  or  no  ! 

Con.    Yes,  just.    You  love  a  rose  ;  no  harm  in  that : 


1'JO 


IN  A  BALCONY. 


But  was  it  for  the  rose's  sake  or  mine 

You  put  it  in  your  bosom  ?  mine,  you  said  — 

Then,  mine  you  still  must  say  or  else  be  false. 

You  told  the  Queen  you  served  her  for  herself  ; 

If  so,  to  serve  her  was  to  serve  yourself, 

She  thinks,  for  all  your  unbelieving  face  ! 

I  know  her.    In  the  hall,  six  steps  from  us, 

One  sees  the  twenty  pictures  ;  there's  a  life 

Better  than  life,  and  yet  no  life  at  all. 

Conceive  her  born  in  such  a  magic  dome, 

Pictures  all  round  her  !  why,  she  sees  the  world, 

Can  recognize  its  given  things  and  facts, 

The  fight  of  giants  or  the  feast  of  gods, 

Sages  in  senate,  beauties  at  the  bath, 

Chases  and  battles,  the  whole  earth's  display, 

Landscape  and  sea-piece,  down  to  flowers  and  fruit  — 

And  who  shall  question  that  she  knows  them  all, 

In  better  semblance  than  the  things  outside  ? 

Yet  bring  into  the  silent  gallery 

Some  live  thing  to  contrast  in  breath  and  blood, 

Some  lion,  with  the  painted  lion  there  — 

You  think  she'll  understand  composedly  ? 

—  Say,  "  That's  his  fellow  in  the  hunting-piece 

Yonder,  I've  turned  to  praise  a  hundred  times  ?  " 

Not  so.    Her  knowledge  of  our  actual  earth, 

Its  hopes  and  fears,  concerns  and  sympathies, 

Must  be  too  far,  too  mediate,  too  unreal. 

The  real  exists  for  us  outside,  not  her  : 

How  should  it,  with  that  life  in  these  four  walls, 

That  father  and  that  mother,  first  to  last 

No  father  and  no  mother  —  friends,  a  heap, 

Lovers,  no  lack  —  a  husband  in  due  time, 

And  every  one  of  them  alike  a  lie  ! 

Things  painted  by  a  Rubens  out  of  naught 

Into  what  kindness,  friendship,  love  should  be  ; 

All  better,  all  more  grandiose  than  life, 

Only  no  life  ;  mere  cloth  and  surface-paint, 

You  feel,  while  you  admire.    How  should  she  feel  ? 

Yet  now  that  she  has  stood  thus  fifty  years 

The  sole  spectator  in  that  gallery, 

You  think  to  bring  this  warm  real  struggling  love 

In  to  her  of  a  sudden,  and  suppose 

She'll  keep  her  state  untroubled  ?    Here's  the  truth  s 

She'll  apprehend  truth's  value  at  a  glance, 

Prefer  it  to  the  pictured  loyalty  ? 

You  only  have  to  say  "  So  men  are  made, 

For  this  they  act ;  the  thing  has  many  names, 

But  this  the  right  one  :  and  now,  Queen,  be  just !  " 

Your  life  slips  back  ;  you  lose  her  at  the  word  : 

You  do  not  even  for  amends  gain  me 

He  will  not  understand  !  O  Norbert,  Norbert ! 

Do  you  not  understand  ? 

Nor.  The  Queen's  the  Queen, 

I  am  myself  —  no  picture,  but  alive 
In  every  nerve  and  every  muscle,  here 
At  the  palace-window  o'er  the  people's  street, 
As  she  in  the  gallery  where  the  pictures  glow  : 
The  good  of  life  is  precious  to  us  both. 
She  cannot  love  ;  what  do  I  want  with  rule  ? 


/.V   A   BALCONY.  191 


When  first  I  saw  your  face  a  year  ago 

I  knew  my  life's  good,  my  soul  heard  one  voice  — 

"  The  woman  yonder,  there's  no  use  of  life 

But  just  to  obtain  her  !  heap  earth's  woes  in  one 

And  bear  them  —  make  a  pile  of  all  earth's  joys 

And  spurn  them,  as  they  help  or  help  not  this  : 

Only,  obtain  her  !  "  —  how  was  it  to  be  ? 

I  found  you  were  the  cousin  of  the  Queen  ; 

I  must  then  serve  the  Queen  to  get  to  you. 

No  other  way.    Suppose  there  had  been  one, 

And  I,  by  saying  prayers  to  some  white  star 

With  promise  of  my  body  and  my  soul, 

Might  gain  you,  —  should  I  pray  the  star  or  no  ? 

Instead,  there  was  the  Queen  to  serve  !    I  served, 

Helped,  did  what  other  servants  failed  to  do. 

Neither  she  sought  nor  I  declared  my  end. 

Her  good  is  hers,  my  recompense  be  mine, 

I  therefore  name  you  as  that  recompense. 

She  dreamed  that  such  a  thing  could  never  be  ? 

Let  her  wake  now.    She  thinks  there  was  more  cause 

In  love  of  power,  high  fame,  pure  loyalty  ? 

Perhaps  she  fancies  men  wear  out  their  lives 

Chasing  such  shades.    Then,  I've  a  fancy  too  ; 

I  worked  because  I  want  you  with  my  soul  : 

I  therefore  ask  your  hand.     Let  it  be  now  ! 

Con,    Had  I  not  loved  you  from  the  very  first, 
Were  I  not  yours,  could  we  not  steal  out  thus 
So  wickedly,  so  wildly,  and  so  well, 
You  might  become  impatient.    What's  conceived 
Of  us  without  here,  by  the  folks  within  ? 
Where  are  you  now  ?  immersed  in  cares  of  state 
Where  am  I  now  ? — intent  on  festal  robes  — 
We  two,  embracing  under  death's  spread  hand  ! 
What  was  this  thought  for,  what  that  scruple  of  yours 
Which  broke  the  council  up?  —  to  bring  about 
One  minute's  meeting  in  the  corridor  ! 
And  then  the  sudden  sleights,  strange  secrecies, 
Complots  inscrutable,  deep  telegraphs, 
Long-planned  chance-meetings,  hazards  of  a  look, 
"  Does  she  know  ?  does  she  not  know  ?  saved,  or  lost  ? ' 
A  year  of  this  compression's  ecstasy 
All  goes  for  nothing  !  you  would  give  this  up 
For  the  old  way,  the  open  way,  the  world's, 
His  way  who  beats,  and  his  who  sells  his  wife  ! 
What  tempts  you?  —  their  notorious  happiness, 
That  you  are  ashamed  of  ours  ?    The  best  you'll  gain 
Will  be  —  the  Queen  grants  all  that  you  require, 
Concedes  the  cousin,  rids  herself  of  you 
And  me  at  once,  and  gives  us  ample  leave 
To  live  like  our  five  hundred  happy  friends 
The  world  will  show  us  with  officious  hand 
Our  chamber-entry  and  stand  sentinel, 
Where  we  so  oft  have  stolen  across  its  traps  ! 
Get  the  world's  warrant,  ring  the  falcons'  feet, 
And  make  it  duty  to  be  bold  and  swift, 
Which  long  ago  was  nature.     Have  it  so  ! 
We  never  hawked  by  rights  till  flung  from  fist  ? 
Oh,  the  man's  thought !  no  woman's  such  a  fool. 

Nor.    Yes,  the  man's  thought  and  my  thought,  which  is  more-" 


192 


IN  A   BALCONY. 


One  made  to  love  you,  let  the  world  take  note  ! 

Have  I  done  worthy  work  ?  be  love's  the  praise, 

Though  hampered  by  restrictions,  barred  against 

By  set  forms,  blinded  by  forced  secrecies  ! 

Set  free  nay  love,  and  see  what  love  can  do 

Shown  in  my  life  —  what  work  will  spring  from  that ! 

The  world  is  used  to  have  its  business  done 

On  other  grounds,  find  great  effects  produced 

For  power's  sake,  fame's  sake,  motives  in  men's  mouth. 

So,  good  :  but  let  my  low  ground  shame  their  high  ! 

Truth  is  the  strong  thing.    Let  man's  life  be  true  ! 

And  love's  the  truth  of  mine.     Time  prove  the  rest ! 

I  choose  to  wear  you  stamped  all  over  me, 

Your  name  upon  my  forehead  and  my  breast, 

You,  from  the  sword's  blade  to  the  ribbon's  edge, 

That  men  may  see,  all  over,  you  in  me  — 

That  pale  loves  may  die  out  of  their  pretence 

In  face  of  mine,  shames  thrown  on  love  fall  off. 

Permit  this,  Constance  !    Love  has  been  so  long 

Subdued  in  me,  eating  me  through  and  through, 

That  now  'tis  all  of  me  and  must  have  way. 

Think  of  my  work,  that  chaos  of  intrigues, 

Those  hopes  and  fears,  surprises  and  delays, 

That  long  endeavor,  earnest,  patient,  slow, 

Trembling  at  last  to  its  assured  result  — 

Then  think  of  this  revulsion  !    I  resume 

Life  after  death  (it  is  no  less  than  life, 

After  such  long  unlovely  laboring  days), 

And  liberate  to  beauty  life's  great  need 

O'  the  beautiful,  which,  while  it  prompted  work, 

Suppressed  itself  erewhile.     This  eve's  the  time, 

This  eve  intense  with  yon  first  trembling  star 

We  seem  to  pant  and  reach  ;  scarce  aught  between 

The  earth  that  rises  and  the  heaven  that  bends  : 

All  nature  self-abandoned,  every  tree 

Flung  as  it  will,  pursuing  its  own  thoughts 

And  fixed  so,  every  flower  and  every  weed, 

No  pride,  no  shame,  no  victory,  no  defeat ; 

All  under  God,  each  measured  by  itself. 

These  statues  round  us  stand  abrupt,  distinct, 

The  strong  in  strength,  the  weak  in  weakness  fixed, 

The  Muse  forever  wedded  to  her  lyre, 

The  Nymph  to  her  fawn,  the  Silence  to  her  rose  : 

See  God's  approval  on  his  universe  ! 

Let  us  do  so  —  aspire  to  live  as  these 

In  harmony  with  truth,  ourselves  being  true  ! 

Take  the  first  way,  and  let  the  second  come  ! 

My  first  is  to  possess  myself  of  you  ; 

The  music  sets  the  march-step  —  forward,  then  ! 

And  there's  the  Queen,  I  go  to  claim  you  of, 

The  world  to  witness,  wonder,  and  applaud. 

Our  flower  of  life  breaks  open.    No  delay  ! 

Con.    And  so  shall  we  be  ruined,  both  of  us. 
Norbert,  I  know  her  to  the  skin  and  bone  : 
You  do  not  know  her,  were  not  born  to  it, 
To  feel  what  she  can  see  or  cannot  see. 
Love,  she  is  generous,  — ay,  despite  your  smile, 
Generous  as  you  are  :  for,  in  that  thin  frame 
Pain-twisted,  punctured  through  and  through  with  cares, 


IN  A   BALCONY. 


19? 


There  lived  a  lavish  soul  until  it  starved 

Debarred  all  healthy  food.    Look  to  the  soul  — 

Pity  that,  stoop  to  that,  ere  you  begin 

(The  true  man's-way)  on  justice  and  your  rights, 

Exactions  and  acquittance  of  the  past ! 

Begin  so  —  see  what  justice  she  will  deal ! 

We  women  hate  a  debt  as  men  a  gift. 

Suppose  her  some  poor  keeper  of  a  school 

Whose  business  is  to  sit  through  summer  months 

And  dole  out  children  leave  to  go  and  play, 

Herself  superior  to  such  lightness  —  she 

En  the  arm-chair's  state  and  pedagogic  pomp, 

To  the  life,  the  laughter,  sun  and  youth  outside  : 

We  wonder  such  a  face  looks  black  on  us  ? 

I  do  not  bid  you  wake  her  tenderness 

(That  were  vain  truly  —  none  is  left  to  wake), 

But,  let  her  think  her  justice  is  engaged 

To  take  the  shape  of  tenderness,  and  mark 

If  she'll  not  coldly  pay  its  warmest  debt ! 

Does  she  love  me,  I  ask  you  ?  not  a  whit  : 

Yet,  thinking  that  her  justice  was  engaged 

To  help  a  kinswoman,  she  took  me  up  — 

Did  more  on  that  bare  ground  than  other  loves 

Would  do  on  greater  argument.    For  me, 

I  have  no  equivalent  of  such  cold  kind 

To  pay  her  with,  but  love  alone  to  give 

If  I  give  any  thing.     I  give  her  love  : 

I  feel  I  ought  to  help  her,  and  I  will. 

So,  for  her  sake,  as  yours,  I  tell  you  twice 

That  women  hate  a  debt  as  men  a  gift. 

If  I  were  you,  I  could  obtain  this  grace  — 

Could  lay  the  whole  I  did  to  love's  account, 

Nor  yet  be  very  false  as  courtiers  go  — 

Declaring  my  success  was  recompense  ; 

It  would  be  so,  in  fact :  what  were  it  else  ? 

And  then,  once  loose  her  generosity, — 

Oh,  how  I  see  it !  then,  were  I  but 'you 

To  turn  it,  let  it  seem  to  move  itself, 

And  make  it  offer  what  I  really  take, 

Accepting  just,  in  the  poor  cousin's  hand, 

Her  value  as  the  next  thing  to  the  Queen's  — 

Since  none  love  Queens  directly,  none  dare  that, 

And  a  thing's  shadow  or  a  name's  mere  echo 

Suffices  those  who  miss  the  name  and  thing ! 

You  pick  up  just  a  ribbon  she  has  worn, 

To  keep  in  proof  how  near  her  breath  you  came. 

Say,  I'm  so  near  I  seem  a  piece  of  her  — 

Ask  for  me  that  way  —  (oh,  you  understand) 

You'd  find  the  same  gift  yielded  with  a  grace, 

Which,  if  you  make  the  least  show  to  extort  .  .  . 

—  You'll  see  !  and  when  yon  have  ruined  both  of  UB, 

Dissertate  on  the  Queen's  ingratitude  ! 

Nor.    Then,  if  I  turn  it  that  way,  you  consent? 
'Tis  not  my  way  ;  I  have  more  hope  in  truth  : 
Still,  if  you  won't  have  truth  —  why,  this  indeed, 
Were  scarcely  false,  as  I'd  express  the  sense. 
Will  you  remain  here  ? 

Con.  O  best  heart  of  mine, 

How  I  have  loved  you  !  then,  you  take  ray  way  ? 


iF" 


72V  A  BALCONY. 


Are  mine  as  you  have  been  her  minister, 
Work  out  my  thought,  give  it  effect  for  ine, 
Paint  plain  my  poor  conceit  and  make  it  serve  ? 
I  owe  that  withered  woman  every  thing  — 
Life,  fortune,  you,  remember  !     Take  my  part  — 
Help  me  to  pay  her  !    Stand  upon  your  rights  ? 
You,  with  my  rose,  my  hands,  my  heart  on  you  ? 
Your  rights  are  mine  —  you  have  no  rights  but  mine. 

Nor.   Remain  here.    How  you  know  me  ! 

Con.  Ah,  but  still  — 

[He  breaks  from  her:  she  remains.    Dance-music  from  within 

Enter  the  QUEEN. 

Queen.    Constance  ?    She  is  here  as  he  said.    Speak  quick  I 
Is  it  so  ?    Is  it  true  or  false  ?    One  word  ? 

Con.    True. 

Queen.  Mercifullest  Mother,  thanks  to  thee  ! 

Con.    Madam  ? 

Queen.  I  love  you,  Constance,  from  my  soul. 

Now  say  once  more,  with  any  words  you  will, 
'Tis  true,  all  true,  as  true  as  that  I  speak. 

Con.    Why  should  you  doubt  it  ? 

Queen.  Ah,  why  doubt?  why  doubt? 

Dear,  make  me  see  it !    Do  you  see  it  so  ? 
None  see  themselves  ;  another  sees  them  best. 
You  say,  "  Why  doubt  it  ?  "  —  you  see  him  and  me 
It  is  because  the  Mother  has  such  grace 
That  if  we  had  but  faith  —  wherein  we  fail  — 
Whate'er  we  yearn  for  would  be  granted  us  ; 
Howbeit  we  let  our  whims  prescribe  despair, 
Our  very  fancies  thwart  and  cramp  our  will, 
And  so,  accepting  life,  abjure  ourselves. 
Constance,  I  had  abjured  the  hope  of  love 
And  being  loved,  as  truly  as  yon  palm 
The  hope  of  seeing  Egypt  from  that  plot. 

Con.    Heaven  ! 

Queen.  But  it  was  so,  Constance,  it  was  so  ! 

Men  say  —  or  do  men  say  it  ?  fancies  say  — 
"  Stop  here,  your  life  is  set,  you  are  grown  old. 
Too  late  —  no  love  for  you,  too  late  for  love  — 
Leave  love  to  girls.    Be  queen  :  let  Constance  love  I " 
One  takes  the  hint  —  half  meets  it  like  a  child, 
Ashamed  at  any  feelings  that  oppose. 
"  O  love,  true,  never  think  of  love  again  ! 
I  am  a  queen  :  I  rule,  not  love,  indeed." 
So  it  goes  on  ;  so  a  face  grows  like  this, 
Hair  like  this  hair,  poor  arms  as  lean  as  these, 
Till,  —  nay,  it  does  not  end  so,  I  thank  God  1 

Con.    I  cannot  understand  — 

Queen.  The  happier  you ! 

Constance,  I  know  not  how  it  is  with  men  : 
For  women  (I  am  a  woman  now  like  you) 
There  is  no  good  of  life  but  love  —  but  love  ! 
What  else  looks  good,  is  some  shade  flung  from  love  ; 
Love  gilds  it,  gives  it  worth.    Be  warned  by  me, 
Never  you  cheat  yourself  one  instant !    Love, 
Give  love,  ask  only  love,  and  leave  the  rest  1 
O  Constance,  how  I  love  you  t 


IN   A   BALCONY. 


195 


Con.  I  love  you. 

Queen.    I  do  believe  that  all  is  come  through  you. 
I  took  you  to  my  heart  to  keep  it  warm 
"When  the  last  chance  of  love  seemed  dead  in  me  ; 
I  thought  your  fresh  youth  warmed  my  withered  heart. 
Oh,  I  am  very  old  no%v,  am  I  not  ? 
Not  so  !  it  is  true  and  it  shall  be  true  ! 

Con.     Tell  it  me  :  let  me  judge  if  true  or  false. 

Queen.    Ah,  but  I  fear  you  !  you  will  look  at  me 
And  say,  "  She's  old,  she's  grown  unlovely  quite 
Who  ne'er  was  beauteous  :  men  want  beauty  still." 
Well,  so  I  feared  —  the  curse  !  so  I  felt  sure ! 

Con.    Be  calm.    And  now  you  feel  not  sure,  you  say  ? 

Queen.    Constance,  he  came,  —  the  coming  was  not  strange- 
Do  not  I  stand  and  see  men  come  and  go  ? 
I  turned  a  half-look  from  my  pedestal 
Where  I  grow  marble  —  "  one  young  man  the  more  ! 
He  will  love  some  one  ;  that  is  naught  to  me  : 
What  would  he  with  my  marble  stateliness?" 
Yet  this  seemed  somewhat  worse  than  heretofore  ; 
The  man  more  gracious,  youthful,  like  a  god, 
And  I  still  older,  with  less  flesh  to  change  — 
We  two  those  dear  extremes  that  long  to  touch. 
It  seemed  still  harder  when  he  first  began 
Absorbed  to  labor  at  the  state-affairs 
The  old  way  for  the  old  end  —  interest. 
Oh,  to  live  with  a  thousand  beating  hearts 
Around  you,  swift  eyes,  serviceable  hands, 
Professing  they've  no  care  but  for  your  cause, 
Thought  but  to  help  you,  love  but  for  yourself, 
And  you  the  marble  statue  all  the  time 
They  praise  and  point  at  as  preferred  to  life, 
Yet  leave  for  the  first  breathing  woman's  cheek, 
First  dancer's,  gypsy's,  or  street  haladinc's  ! 
Why,  how  I  have  ground  my  teeth  to  hear  men's  speech 
Stifled  for  fear  it  should  alarm  my  ear, 
Their  gait  subdued  lest  step  should  startle  me, 
Then  eyes  declined,  such  queendom  to  respect, 
Their  hands  alert,  such  treasure  to  preserve, 
While  not  a  man  of  them  broke  rank  and  spoke, 
Or  wrote  me  a  vulgar  letter  all  of  love, 
Or  caught  my  hand  and  pressed  it  like  a  hand  ! 
There  have  been  moments,  if  the  sentinel 
Lowering  his  halbert  to  salute  the  queen, 
Had  flung  it  brutally  and  clasped  my  knees, 
I  would  have  stooped  and  kissed  him  with  my  soul. 

Con.     Who  could  have  comprehended  ? 

Queen.  Ay,  who  — who? 

Why,  no  one,  Constance,  but  this  one  who  did. 
Nor  they,  not  you,  not  I.    Even  now  perhaps 
It  comes  too  late  —  would  you  but  tell  the  truth. 

Con.    I  wait  to  tell  it. 

Queen.  Well,  you  see,  he  came, 

Outfaced  the  others,  did  a  work  this  year 
Exceeds  in  value  all  was  ever  done, 
You  know  —  it  is  not  I  who  say  it  —  all 
Say  it.    And  so  (a.second  pang  and  worse) 
I  grew  aware  not  only  of  what  he  did, 
But  why  so  wondrously.    Oh,  never  work 


196 


IN  A   BALCONY. 


Like  his  was  done  for  work's  ignoble  sake  — 

It  must  have  finer  aims  to  lure  it  on  ! 

I  felt,  I  saw,  he  loved —  loved  somebody. 

And  Constance,  my  dear  Constance,  do  you  know, 

I  did  believe  this  while  'twas  you  he  loved. 

Con.    Me,  Madam  ? 

Queen.  It  did  seem  to  me,  your  face 

Met  him  where'er  he  looked  :  and  whom  but  you 
Was  such  a  man  to  love  ?    It  seemed  to  me, 
You  saw  he  loved  you,  and  approved  the  love, 
And  so  you  both  were  in  intelligence. 
You  could  not  loiter  in  the  garden,  step 
Into  this  balcony,  but  I  straight  was  stung 
And  forced  to  understand.    It  seemed  so  true, 
So  right,  so  beautiful,  so  like  you  both, 
That  all  this  work  should  have  been  done  by  him 
Not  for  the  vulgar  hope  of  recompense, 
But  that  at  last  —  suppose,  some  night  like  this  — 
Borne  on  to  claim  his  due  reward  of  me. 
He  might  say,  "  Give  her  hand  and  pay  me  so." 
And  I  (O  Constance,  you  shall  love  me  now  !) 
I  thought,  surmounting  all  the  bitterness, 
—  "  And  he  shall  have  it.     I  will  make  her  blest, 
My  flower  of  youth,  my  woman's  self  that  was, 
My  happiest  woman's  self  that  might  have  been  ! 
These  two  shall  have  their  joy  and  leave  me  here." 
Yes  —  yes  ! 

Con.         Thanks  ! 

Queen.  And  the  word  was  on  my  lips 

When  he  burst  in  upon  me.    I  looked  to  hear 
A  mere  calm  statement  of  his  just  desire 
For  payment  of  his  labor.    When  —  O  heaven, 
How  can  I  tell  you  ?  cloud  was  on  my  eyes 
And  thunder  in  my  ears  at  that  first  word 
Which  told  'twas  love  of  me,  of  me,  did  all  — 
He  loved  me  —  from  the  first  step  to  the  last, 
Loved  me ! 

Con.          You  did  not  hear  .  .  .  you  thought  he  spoke 
Of  love  ?  what  if  you  should  mistake  ? 

Qiieen.  No,  no  — 

No  mistake  !    Ha,  there  shall  be  no  mistake  ! 
He  had  not  dared  to  hint  the  love  he  felt  — 
You  were  my  reflex  —  (how  I  understood  !) 
He  said  you  were  the  ribbon  I  had  worn, 
He  kissed  my  hand,  he  looked  into  my  eyes, 
And  love,  love  was  the  end  of  every  phrase. 
Love  is  begun  ;  this  much  is  come  to  pass  : 
The  rest  is  easy.    Constance,  I  am  yours  ! 
I  will  learn,  I  will  place  my  life  on  you, 
But  teach  me  ho\r  to  keep  what  I  have  won  ! 
Am  I  so  old  ?    This  hair  was  early  gray  ; 
But  joy  ere  no\y  has  brought  hair  brown  again, 
And  joy  will  bring  the  cheek's  red  back,  I  feel. 
I  could  sing  once  too  ;  that  was  in  my  youth. 
Still,  when  men  paint  me,  they  declare  me  .  .  .  yes, 
Beautiful  —  for  the  last  French  painter  did  ! 
I  know  they  flatter  somewhat  ;  you  are  frank  — 
I  trust  you.    How  I  loved  you  from  the  first  ! 
Some  queens  would  hardly  seek  a  cousin  out 


7.V  A   BALCONY. 


197 


Arid  set  her  by  their  side  to  take  the  eye  : 

I  must  have  felt  that  good  would  come  from  you. 

t  am  not  generous  —  like  him  —  like  you  ! 

But  he  is  not  your  lover  after  all : 

It  was  not  you  he  looked  at.    Saw  you  him  ? 

You  have  not  been  mistaking  words  or  looks  ? 

He  said  you  were  the  reflex  of  myself. 

And  yet  he  is  not  such  a  paragon 

To  you,  to  younger  women  who  may  choose 

Among  a  thousand  Norberts.     Speak  the  truth  ! 

You  know  you  never  named  his  name  to  me  — 

You  know,  I  cannot  give  him  up  — ah  God, 

Not  up  now,  even  to  you  ! 

Con.  Then  calm  yourself. 

Queen.    See,  I  am  old  —  look  here,  you  happy  girl ! 
I  will  not  play  the  fool,  deceive  myself  ; 
'Tis  all  gone  :  put  your  cheek  beside  my  cheek  — 
Ah,  what  a  contrast  does  the  moon  behold  ! 
But  then  I  set  my  life  upon  one  chance, 
The  last  chance  and  the  best  —  am  /  not  left, 
My  soul,  myself?    All  women  love  great  men, 
If  young  or  old  ;  it  is  in  all  the  tales  : 
Young  beauties  love  old  poets  who  can  love  — 
Why  should  not  he,  the  poems  in  my  soul, 
The  love,  the  passionate  faith,  the  sacrifice, 
The  constancy  ?    I  throw  them  at  his  feet. 
Who  cares  to  see  the  fountain's  very  shape, 
And  whether  it  be  a  Triton's  or  a  Nymph's 
That  pours  the  foam,  makes  rainbows  all  around  ? 
You  could  not  praise  indeed  the  empty  conch  ; 
But  I'll  pour  floods  of  love  and  hide  myself. 
How  I  will  love  him  !     Cannot  men  love  love  ? 
Who  was  a  queen  and  loved  a  poet  once 
Humpbacked,  a  dwarf  ?  ah,  women  can  do  that  ! 
Well,  but  men  too  :  at  least,  they  tell  you  so. 
They  love  so  many  women  in  their  youth, 
And  even  in  age  they  all  love  whom  they  please  ; 
And  yet  the  best  of  them  confide  to  friends 
That  'tis  not  beauty  makes  the  lasting  love  — 
They  spend  a  day  with  such  and  tire  the  next  : 
They  like  soul,  — well  then,  they  like  fantasy, 
Novelty  even.    Let  us  confess  the  truth, 
Horrible  though  it  be,  that  prejudice, 
Prescription  .  .  .  curses  !  they  will  love  a  queen, 
They  will,  they  do  :  and  will  not,  does  not  —  he  ? 

Con.    How  can  he  ?    You  are  wedded  :  'tis  a  name 
We  know,  but  still  a  bond.    Your  rank  remains, 
His  rank  remains.     How  can  he,  nobly  souled 
As  you  believe  and  I  incline  to  think, 
Aspire  to  be  your  favorite,  shame  and  all  ? 

Queen.    Hear  her  !    There,  there  now  —  could  she  love  like  me? 
What  did  I  say  of  smooth-cheeked  youth  and  grace  ? 
See  all  it  does  or  could  do  !  so,  youth  loves  ! 
Oh,  tell  him,  Constance,  you  could  never  do 
What  I  will  —  you,  it  was  not  born  in  !     I 
Will  drive  these  difficulties  far  and  fast 
As  yonder  mists  curdling  before  the  moon. 
I'll  use  my  light  too,  gloriously  retrieve 
My  youth  from  its  enforced  calamity, 


198 


IN  A  BALCONY. 


Dissolve  that  hateful  marriage,  and  be  his, 

His  own  in  the  eyes  alike  of  God  and  man. 

Con.    You  will  do  —  dare  do  ...  pause  on  what  you  say  I 
Queen.    Hear  her  !  I  thank  you,  sweet,  for  that  surprise. 

You  have  the  fair  face  :  for  the  soul,  see  mine  ! 

I  have  the  strong  soul  :  let  me  teach  you,  here. 

I  think  I  have  borne  enough  and  long  enough, 

And  patiently  enough,  the  world  remarks, 

To  have  my  own  way  now,  unblamed  by  all. 

It  does  so  happen  (I  rejoice  for  it) 

This  most  unhoped-for  issue  cuts  the  knot. 

There's  not  a  better  way  of  settling  claims 

Than  this  :  God  sends  the  accident  express  : 

And  were  it  for  my  subjects'  good,  no  more, 

'Twere  best  thus  ordered.    I  am  thankful  now, 

Mute,  passive,  acquiescent.    I  receive, 

And  bless  God  simply,  or  should  almost  fear 

To  walk  so  smoothly  to  my  ends  at  last. 

Why,  how  I  baffle  obstacles,  spurn  fate  ! 

How  strong  I  am  !  Could  Norbert  see  me  now  I 
Con.  Let  me  consider  !  It  is  all  too  strange. 
Queen.  You,  Constance,  learn  of  me  ;  do  you,  like  me ! 

You  are  young,  beautiful :  my  own,  best  girl, 

You  will  have  many  lovers,  and  love  one  — 

Light  hair,  not  hair  like  Norbert's,  to  suit  yours, 
And  taller  than  he  is,  for  yourself  are  tall. 
Love  him,  like  me  !     Give"  all  away  to  him  ; 
Think  never  of  yourself  ;  throw  by  your  pride, 
Hope,  fear,  —  your  own  good  as  you  saw  it  once, 
And  love  him  simply  for  his  very  self 
Remember,  I  (and  what  am  I  to'you  ?) 
Would  give  up  all  for  one,  leave  throne,  lose  life, 
Do  all  but  just  unlove  him !    He  loves  me. 
Con.    He  shall. 

Queen.  You,  step  inside  my  inmost  heart  I 

Give  me  your  own  heart :  let  us  have  one  heart ! 
I'll  come  to  you  for  counsel  ;  "  this  he  says, 
This  he  does  ;  what  should  this  amount  to,  pray  ? 
Beseech  you,  change  it  into  current  coin  ! 
Is  that  worth  kisses  ?    Shall  I  please  him  there  ?  " 
And  then  we'll  speak  in  turn  of  you  —  what  else  ? 
Your  love,  according  to  your  beauty's  worth, 
For  you  shall  have  some  noble  love,  all  gold  : 
Whom  choose  you  ?  we  will  get  him  at  your  choice. 
—  Constance,  I  leave  you.    Just  a  minute  since, 
I  felt  as  I  must  die  or  be  alone 
Breathing  my  soul  into  an  ear  like  yours  : 
Now,  I  would  face  the  world  with  my  new  life, 
With  my  new  crown.    I'll  walk  around  the  rooms, 
And  then  come  back  and  tell  you  how  it  feels. 
How  soon  a  smile  of  God  can  change  the  world  ! 
How  we  are  made  for  happiness  —  how  work 
G  rows  play,  adversity  a  winning  fight ! 
True  I  have  lost  so  many  years  :  what  then  'i 
Many  remain  :  God  has  been  very  good. 
You,  stay  here  !     'Tis  as  different  from  dreams, 
From  the  mind's  cold  calm  estimate  of  bliss, 
As  these  stone  statues  from  the  flesh  and  blood. 
The  comfort  thou  hast  caused  mankind,  God's  moon  ^ 

[She  goes  out,  leaving  CONSTANCE.    Dance-music  from  within.'] 


IN  A   BALCONY. 


NORBEKT  enters. 

Nor.    Well  ?  we  have  but  one  minute  and  one  word  ! 

Con.    lam  yours,  Norbert ! 

Nor.  Yes,  mine. 

Con.  Not  till  now  1 

You  were  mine.    Now  I  give  myself  to  you. 

Nor.    Constance  ? 

Con.  Your  own  !  I  know  the  thriftier  way 

Of  giving  —  haply,  'tis  the,  wiser  way. 
Meaning  to  give  a  treasure,  I  might  dole 
Coin  after  coin  out  (each,  as  that  were  all, 
With  a  new  largess  still  at  each  despair), 
And  force  you  keep  in  sight  the  deed,  preserve 
Exhaustless  to  the  end  my  part  and  yours, 
My  giving  and  your  taking  ;  both  our  joys 
Dying  together.    Is  it  the  wiser  way  ? 
I  choose  the  simpler  :  I  give  all  at  once. 
Know  what  you  have  to  trust  to,  trade  upon  ! 
Use  it,  abuse  it,  —  any  thing  but  think 
Hereafter,  "  Had  I  known  she  loved  me  so, 
And  what  my  means,  I  might  have  thriven  with  it." 
This  is  your  means.    I  give  you  all  myself. 

Nor.    I  take  you  and  thank  God. 

Con.  Look  on  through  years  ! 

We  cannot  kiss,  a  second  day  like  this  ; 
Else  were  this  earth,  no  earth. 

Nor.  With  this  day's  heat 

We  shall  go  on  through  years  of  cold. 

Con.  So,  best ! 

—  I  try  to  see  those  years,  —  I  think  I  see. 
You  walk  quick  and  new  warmth  comes  ;  you  look  back 
And  lay  all  to  the  first  glow  —  not  sit  down 
Forever  brooding  on  a  day  like  this 
While  seeing  the  embers  whiten  and  love  die. 
Yes,  love  lives  best  in  its  effect ;  and  mine, 
Full  in  its  own  life,  yearns  to  live  in  yours. 

Nor.    Just  so.    I  take  and  know  you  all  at  once. 
Your  soul  is  disengaged  so  easily, 
Your  face  is  there,  I  know  you  ;  give  me  time, 
Let  me  be  proud  and  think  you  shall  know  me. 
My  soul  is  slower  :  in  a  life  I  roll 
The  minute  out  whereto  you  condense  yours  — 
The  whole  slow  circle  round  you  I  must  move, 
To  be  just  you.    I  look  to  a  long  life 
To  decompose  this  minute,  prove  its  worth. 
'Tis  thn  sparks'  long  succession  one  by  one 
Shall  show  you,  in  the  end,  what  fire  was  crammed 
In  that  mere  stone  you  struck  :  how  could  you  know, 
If  it  lay  ever  unproved  in  your  sight, 
As  now  my  heart  lies  ?  your  own  warmth  would  hide 
Its  coldness,  were  it  cold. 

Con.  But  how  prove,  how  ? 

Nor.    Prove  in  my  life,  you  ask  ? 

Con.  Quick,  Norbert  —  how  ? 

Nor.    That's  easy  told.    I  count  life  just  a  stuff 
To  try  the  soul's  strength  on,  educe  the  man. 
Who  keeps  one  end  in  view  makes  all  things  serve. 
As  with  the  body  — he  who  hurls  a  lance 


200 


IN  A  BALCONY. 


Or  heaps  up  stone  on  atone,  shows  strength  alike, 
So  I  will  seize  and  use  all  means  to  prove 
And  show  this  soul  of  mine,  you  crown  as  yours, 
And  justify  us  both. 

Con.  Could  you  write  books. 

Paint  pictures  !    One  sits  down  in  poverty 
And  writes  or  paints,  with  pity  for  the  rich. 

Nor.    And  loves  one's  painting  and  one's  writing,  then, 
And  not  one's  mistress  !    All  is  best,  believe, 
And  we  best  as  no  other  than  we  are. 
We  live,  and  they  experiment  on  life  — 
Those  poets,  painters,  all  who  stand  aloof 
To  overlook  the  farther.    Let  us  be 
The  thing  they  look  at !    I  might  take  your  face 
And  write  of  it,  and  paint  it,  —  to  what  end  ? 
For  whom  ?  what  pale  dictatress  in  the  air 
Feeds,  smiling  sadly,  her  fine  ghost-like  form 
"With  earth's  real  blood  and  breath,  the  beauteous  life 
She  makes  despised  forever  ?    You  are  mine, 
Made  for  me,  not  for  others  in  the  world, 
Nor  yet  for  that  which  I  should  call  my  art, 
The  cold  calm  power  to  see  how  fair  you  look. 
I  come  to  you  ;  I  leave  you  not,  to  write 
Or  paint.    You  are,  I  am  :  let  Rubens  there 
Paint  us ! 

Con.      So,  best ! 

Nor.  I  understand  your  soul. 

You  live,  and  rightly  sympathize  with  life, 
With  action,  power,  success.    This  way  is  straight ; 
And  time  were  short  beside,  to  let  me  change 
The  craft  my  childhood  learnt :  my  craft  shall  serve. 
Men  set  me  here  to  subjugate,  enclose, 
Manure  their  barren  lives,  and  force  the  fruit 
First  for  themselves,  and  afterward  for  me 
In  the  due  tithe  ;  the  task  of  some  one  man, 
Through  ways  of  work  appointed  by  themselves. 
I  am  not  bid  create,  —  they  see  no  star 
Transfiguring  my  brow  to  warrant  that,  — 
But  bind  in  one  and  carry  out  their  wills. 
So  I  began  :  to-night  sees  how  I  end. 
What  if  it  see,  too,  my  first  outbreak  here 
Amid  the  warmth,  surprise,  and  sympathy, 
And  instincts  of  the  heart  that  teach  the  head  ? 
What  if  the  people  have  discerned  at  length 
The  dawn  of  the  next  nature,  the  new  man 
Whose  will  they  venture  in  the  place  of  theirs, 
And  who,  they  trust,  shall  find  them  out  new  ways 
To  heights  as  new  which  yet  he  only  sees  ? 
I  felt  it  when  you  kissed  me.     See  this  Queen, 
This  people,  —  in  our  phrase,  this  mass  of  men, — 
See  how  the  mass  lies  passive  to  my  hand 
And  how  my  hand  is  plastic,  and  you  by 
To  make  the  muscles  iron  !    Oh,  an  end 
Shall  crown  this  issue  as  this  crowns  the  first ! 
My  will  be  on  this  people  !  then,  the  strain, 
The  grappling  of  the  potter  with  his  clay, 
The  long,  uncertain  struggle,  — the  success 
And  consummation  of  the  spirit-r^ork, 
Some  vase  shaped  to  the  curl  of  the  god's  )ip. 


IN  A   BALCONY.  201 


While  rounded  fair  for  lower  men  to  see 

The  Graces  in  a  danoe  all  recognize 

With  turbulent  applause  and  laughs  of  heart ! 

So  triumph  ever  shall  renew  itself  ; 

Ever  shall  end  in  efforts  higher  yet, 

Ever  begin  .  .  . 

Con.  I  ever  helping  ? 

Vor  Thus ! 

[As  he  embraces  her,  the  QDEEN  enters.] 
Con.    Hist,  madam  !    So  I  have  performed  my  part. 
You  see  your  gratitude's  true  decency, 
Norbert  ?    A  little  slow  in  seeing  it ! 
Begin  to  end  the  sooner  !    What's  a  kiss  ? 
Nor.    Constance  ? 

Con.  Why,  must  I  teach  it  you  again  ? 

You  want  a  witness  to  your'dulness,  sir  ? 
What  was  I  saying  these  ten  minutes  long  ? 
Then  I  repeat,  — when  some  young,  handsome  man 
Like  you  has  acted  out  a  part  like  yours, 
Is  pleased  to  fall  in  love  with  one  beyond, 
So  very  far  beyond  him,  as  he  says,— 
So  hopelessly  in  love  that  but  to  speak 
Would  prove  him  mad,  —  he  thinks  judiciously, 
And  makes  some  insignificant  good  soul, 
Like  me,  his  friend,  adviser,  confidant, 
And  very  stalking-horse  to  cover  him 
In  following  after  what  he  dares  not  face  — 
When  his  end's  gained  —  (sir,  do  you  understand  ?) 
When  she,  he  dares  not  face,  has  loved  him  first, 
—  May  I  not  say  so,  madam  ?  —  tops  his  hope, 
And  overpasses  so  his  wildest  dream, 
With  glad  consent  of  all,  and  most  of  her 
The  confidant  who  brought  the  same  about  — 
Why,  in  the  moment  when  such  joy  explodes, 
I  do  hold  that  the  merest  gentleman 
Will  not  start  rudely  from  the  stalking-horse, 
Dismiss  it  with  a  "  There,  enough  of  you  ! ' 
Forget  it,  show  his  back  unmannerly  ; 
But  like  a  liberal  heart  will  rather  turn 
And  say,  "  A  tingling  time  of  hope  was  ours  ; 
Betwixt  the  fears  and  falterings,  we  two  lived 
A  chanceful  time  in  waiting  for  the  prize  : 
The  confidant,  the  Constance,  served  not  ill. 
And  though  I  shall  forget  her  in  due  time, 
Her  use  being  answered  now,  as  reason  bids, 
Nay  as  herself  bids  from  her  heart  of  hearts,  — 
Still,  she  has  rights,  the  first  thanks  go  to  her. 
The  first  good  praise  goes  to  the  prosperous  tool, 
And  the  first  —  which  is  the  last  —  rewarding  kiss. 

Nor.    Constance,  it  is  a  dream  —  ah,  see,  you  smile  I 
Con.    So,  now  his  part  being  properly  performed, 
Madam,  I  turn  to  you  and  finish  mine 
As  duly  :  I  do  justice  in  my  turn. 
Yes,  madam,  he  has  loved  you  — long  and  well ; 
He  could  not  hope  to  tell  you  so  —  'twas  I 
Who  served  to  prove  your  soul  accessible, 
I  led  his  thoughts  on,  drew  thara  to  their  place 
When  else  they  had  wandered  out  into  despair, 
And  kept  love  constant  toward  its  natural  aim. 


202 


IN  A   BALCONY. 


Enough,  my  part  is  played  ;  you  stoop  half-way 
And  ineet  us  royally  and  spare  our  fears  : 
'Tis  like  yourself.     He  thanks  you,  so  do  I 
Take  him  — with  my  full  heart !  my  work  is  praised 
By  what  comes  of  it.     Be  you  happy,  both  ! 
Yourself—  the  only  one  on  earth  who  can  — 
Do  all  for  him,  much  more  than  a  mere  heart 
Which  though  warm  is  not  useful  in  its  warmth 
As  the  silk  vesture  of  a  queen  !  fold  that 
Around  him  gently,  tenderly.     For  him  — 
For  him,  —  he  knows  his  own  part ! 

Nor.  Have  you  done  ? 

I  take  the  jest  at  last.    Should  I  speak  now  ? 
Was  yours  the  wager,  Constance,  foolish  child, 
Or  did  you  but  accept  it  ?    Well  —  at  least 
You  lose  by  it. 

Con.  Nay,  madam,  'tis  your  turn  ! 

Restrain  him  still  from  speech  a  little  more, 
And  make  him  happier  and  more  confident ! 
Pity  him,  madam,  he  is  timid  yet ! 
Mark,  Norbert !    Do  not  shrink  now  !    Here  I  yield 
My  whole  right  in  you  to  the  Queen,  observe  ! 
With  her  go  put  in  practice  the  great  schemes 
You  teem  with,  follow  the  career  else  closed  — 
Be  all  you  cannot  be  except  by  her  ! 
Behold  her  !  —    Madam,  say  for  pity's  sake 
Any  thing  —  frankly  say  you  love  him  !     Else 
He'll  not  believe  it :  there's  more  earnest  in 
His  fear  than  you  conceive  :  I  know  the  man  ! 

Nor.    I  know  the  woman  somewhat,  and  confess 
I  thought  she  had  jested  better  :  she  begins 
To  overcharge  her  part.     I  gravely  wait 
Your  pleasure,  madam  :  \vhere  is  my  reward  ? 

Queen.    Norbert,  this  wild  girl  (whom  I  recognize 
Scarce  more  than  you  do,  in  her  fancy-fit, 
Eccentric  speech,  and  variable  mirth, 
Not  very  wise  perhaps  and  somewhat  bold, 
Yet  suitable,  the  whole  night's  work  being  strange) 
—  May  still  be  right :  I  may  do  well  to  speak 
And  make  authentic  what  appears  a  dream 
To  even  myself.     For  what  she  says  is  truth. 
Yes,  Norbert  —  what  you  spoke  just  now  of  love, 
Devotion,  stirred  no  novel  sense  in  me, 
But  justified  a  warmth  felt  long  before. 
Yes,  from  the  first  —  I  loved  you,  I  shall  say  : 
Strange  !  but  I  do  grow  stronger,  now  'tis  said. 
Your  courage  helps  mine  :  you  did  well  to  speak 
To-night,  the  night  that  crowns  your  twelvemonths'  toil 
But  still  I  had  not  waited  to  discern 
Your  heart  so  long,  believe  me  !     From  the  first 
The  source  of  so  much  zeal  was  almost  plain, 
In  absence  even  of  your  own  words  just  now 
Which  opened  out  the  truth.     'Tis  very  strange. 
Hut  takes  a  happy  ending  —  in  your  love 
Which  mine  meets  :  be  it  so  !  as  you  choose  me, 
So  I  choose  you 

Nor.  And  worthily  you  choose. 

I  will  not  be  unworthy  your  esteem, 
No,  madam.    I  do  love  you  ;  I  will  meet 


IN  A   BALCONY. 


Your  nature,  now  I  know  it.    This  was  well. 
I  see,  —  you  dare  and  you  are  justified  : 
But  none  had  ventured  such  experiment, 
Less  versed  than  you  in  nobleness  of  heart, 
Less  confident  of  finding  such  in  me. 
I  joy  that  thus  you  test  me  ere  you  grant 
The  dearest,  richest,  beauteousest,  and  best 
Of  women  to  my  arms  :  'tis  like  yourself. 
So  —  back  again  into  my  part's  set  words  — 
Devotion  to  the  uttermost  is  yours, 
But  no,  you  cannot,  madam,  even  you, 
Create  in  me  the  love  our  Constance  does. 
Or  —  something  truer  to  the  tragic  phrase  — 
Not  yon  magnolia-bell  superb  with  scent 
Invites  a  certain  insect  —  that's  myself  — 
But  the  small  eye-flower  nearer  to  the  ground. 
I  take  this  lady. 

Con.  Stay  —  not  hers,  the  trap  — 

Stay,  Norbert  —  that  mistake  were  worst  of  all ! 
He  is  too  cunning,  madam  !    It  was  I, 
I,  Norbert,  who  .  .  . 

Nor.  You,  was  it,  Constance?    Then, 

But  for  the  grace  of  this  divinest  hour 
Which  gives  me  you,  I  might  not  pardon  here  ! 
I  am  the  Queen's  ;  she  only  knows  my  brain  : 
She  may  experiment  therefore  on  my  heart 
And  I  instruct  her  too  by  the  result. 
But  you,  Sweet,  you  who  know  me,  who  so  long 
Have  told  my  heart-beats  over,  held  my  life 
In  those  white  hands  of  yours,  —  it  is  not  well ! 

Con.    Tush  !  I  have  said  it,  did  I  not  say  it  all  ? 
The  life,  for  her  —  the  heart-beats,  for  her  sake  ! 

Nor.    Enough  !  my  cheek  grows  red,  I  think.    Your  test? 
There's  not  the  meanest  woman  in  the  world, 
Not  she  I  least  could  love  in  all  the  world, 
Whom,  did  she  love  me,  did  love  prove  itself, 
I  dare  insult  as  you  insult  me  now. 
Constance,  I  could  say,  if  it  must  be  said, 
"  Take  back  the  soul  you  offer,  I  keep  mine  !  " 
But  —  "  Take  the  soul  still  quivering  on  your  hand, 
The  soul  so  offered,  which  I  cannot  use, 
And,  please  you,  give  it  to  some  playful  friend, 
For  —  what's  the  trifle  he  requites  me  with?  " 
—  I,  tempt  a  woman,  to  amuse  a  man, 
That  two  may  mock  her  heart  if  it  succumb  ? 
No  :  fearing  God  and  standing  'neath  his  heaven, 
I  would  not  dare  insult  a  woman  so, 
Were  she  the  meanest  woman  in  the  world, 
And  he,  I  cared  to  please,  ten  emperors  1 

Con.    Norbert f 

Nor,  I  love  once  as  I  live  but  one*. 

What  case  is  this  to  think  or  talk  about  ? 
I  love  you.    Would  it  mend  the  case  at  all 
Should  such  a  step  as  this  kill  love  in  me  ? 
Your  part  were  done  :  account  to  God  for  it ! 
But  mine  —  could  murdered  love  get  up  again, 
And  kneel  to  whom  you  please  to  designate, 
And  make  you  mirth  ?    It  is  too  horrible. 
You  did  not  know  this,  Constance  ?  now  you  know 


204 


IN  A   BALCONY. 


That  body  and  soul  have  each  one  life,  but  one  ; 
And  here's  my  love,  here,  living,  at  your  feet. 

Con.    See  the  Queen  !    Norbert —  this  one  more  last  word  — 
If  thus  you  have  taken  jest  for  earnest  —  thus 
Loved  me  in  earnest  .  .  . 

Nor.  Ah,  no  jest  holds  here  ! 

"Where  is  the  laughter  in  which  jest  breaks  up, 
And  what  this  horror  that  grows  palpable  ? 
Madam  —  why  grasp  you  thus  the  balcony? 
Have  I  done  ill  ?    Have  I  not  spoken  truth  ? 
.How  could  I  other  ?    Was  it  not  your  test, 
To  try  me,  what  my  love  for  Constance  meant  ? 
Madam,  your  royal  soul  itself  approves, 
The  first,  that  I  should  choose  thus  !  so  one  takes 
A  beggar,  — asks  him,  what  would  buy  his  child  ? 
And  then  approves  the  expected  laugh  of  scorn 
Returned  as  something  noble  from  the  rags. 
Speak,  Constance,  I'm  the  beggar  !     Ha,  what's  this  ? 
You  two  glare  each  at  each  like  panthers  now. 
Constance,  the  world  fades  :  only  you  stand  there  ! 
You  did  not,  in  to-night's  wild  whirl  of  things, 
Sell  me  —  your  soul  of  souls,  for  any  price  ? 
No  —  no  —  'tis  easy  to  believe  in  you  ! 
Was  it  your  love's  mad  trial  to  o'ertop 
Mine  by  this  vain  self-sacrifice  ?  well,  still  — 
Though  I  should  curse,  I  love  you.    I  am  love 
And  cannot  change  :  love's  self  is  at  your  feet ! 

[The  QUEEN  goes  ov* 

Con.    Feel  my  heart :  let  it  die  against  your  own  ! 

Nor.    Against  my  own.    Explain  not :  let  this  be  ! 
This  is  life's  height. 

Con.  Yours,  yours,  yours  ! 

Nor.  You  and  I  — 

Why  care  by  what  meanders  we  are  here 
I'  the  centre  of  the  labyrinth  ?    Men  have  died 
Trying  to  find  this  place,  which  we  have  found. 

Con.    Found,  found ! 

Nor.  Sweet,  never  fear  what  she  can  do  ! 

We  are  past  harm  now. 

Con.  On  the  breast  of  God. 

I  thought  of  men  —  as  if  you  were  a  man. 
Tempting  him  with  a  crown  ! 

Nor.  This  must  end  here  : 

It  is  too  perfect. 

Con.  There's  the  music  stopped. 

What  measured  heavy  tread  ?    It  is  one  blaze 
About  me  and  within  me. 

Nor.  Oh,  some  death 

Will  run  its  sudden  finger  round  this  spark 
And  sever  us  from  the  rest ! 

Con.  And  so  do  well. 

Now  the  doors  open. 

Nor.  'Tis  the  guard  comes. 

Con.  Kiss  I 


'  And  washed  by  the  morning  water-gold, 
Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain  side." —  Page  201;. 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 


205 


OLD     PICTURES     IN     FLOR- 
ENCE. 


i. 
THE  inorn  when  first  it  thunders  in 

March, 
The  eel  in  the  pond  gives  a  leap, 

they  say. 
As  I  leaned  and  looked  over  the  aloed 

arch 
Of  the  villa-gate  this  warm  March 

day, 
No  flash  snapped,  no  dumb  thunder 

rolled 
In  the  valley  beneath  where,  white 

and  wide 

And  washed  by  the  morning  water- 
gold, 

Florence  lay  out  on  the  mountain- 
side. 

ii. 
River    and    bridge    and    street    and 

square 
Lay  mine,  as  much  at  my  beck  and 

call, 
Through  the  live  translucent  bath  of 

air, 

As  the  sights  in  a  magic  crystal-ball. 

And  of  all  I  saw  and  of  all  I  praised, 

The  most  to  praise  and  the  best  to 

see 
Was  the  startling  bell-tower  Giotto 

raised  : 

But  why  did  it  more  than  startle 
me? 

in. 

Giotto,  how,  with  that  soul  of  yours, 
Could  you  play  me  false  who  loved 

you  so  ? 

Some  slights  if  a  certain  heart  en- 
dures 

Yet  it  feels,  I  would  have  your  fel- 
lows know  ! 
T'  faith,  I  perceive  not  why  I  should 

care 
To  break  a  silence  that  suits  them 

best, 
But  the  thing  grows  somewhat  hard 

to  bear 
When  I  find  a  Giotto  join  the  rest. 

IV. 

On  the  arch  where  olives  overhead 
Print  the  blue  sky  with -twig  and 
leaf 


That  sharp-curled  leaf  which  they 

never  shed), 
'Twixt  the  aloes,  I  used  to  learn  in 

chief, 

And  mark  through  the  winter  after- 
noons, 
By  a  gift  God  grants  me  now  and 

then, 
En  the  mild  decline  of  those  suns  like 

moons, 

Who  walked  in  Florence,  besides  her 
men. 

v. 
They  might  chirp  and  chaffer,  come 

and  go 
For   pleasure   or   profit,   her   men 

alive  — 
My  business  was  hardly  with  them,  I 

trow, 
But  with  empty  cells  of  the  human 

hive  ; 

—  With  the  chapter-room,  the  cloister- 
porch, 

The  church's  apsis,  aisle  or  nave, 
Its  crypt,  one  fingers  along  with  a 

torch, 
Its  face  set  full  for  the  sun  to  shave. 


Wherever  a  fresco  peels  and  drops, 
Wherever  an  outline  weakens  and 

wanes 
Till  the  latest  life  in    the   painting 

stops, 

Stands  One  whom  each  fainter  pulse- 
tick  pains  : 
One,  wishful  each  scrap  should  clutch 

the  brick, 
Each  tinge  not  wholly  escape  the 

plaster, 

—  A  lion  who  dies  of  an  ass's  kick, 
The  wronged  great  soul  of  an  an- 
cient Master. 


For  oh,  this  world  and  the  wrong  it 

does ! 
They  are  safe  in  heaven  with  their 

backs  to  it, 
The  Michaels  and  Rafaels,  you  hum 

and  buzz 
Round  the  works  of,  you  of  the  little 

wit! 
Do  their  eyes  contract  to  the  earth  s 

old  scone, 
Now  that  they  see  God  face  to  face, 


20G 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 


And  have  all  attained  to  be  poets,  I 

hope  ? 

'Tis    their    holiday    now,    in  any 
case. 


Much  they  reck  of  your  praise  and 

you ! 
But  the  wronged  great  souls  —  can 

they  be  quit 
Of  a  world  where  their  work  is  all  to 

do, 
Where  you  style  them,  you  of  the 

little  wit, 

Old  Master  This  and  Early  the  Other, 
Not  dreaming  that  Old  and  New  are 

fellows  : 
A    younger    succeeds    to    an    elder 

brother, 

Da  Vincis  derive  in  good  time  from 
Dellos. 


And  here  where  your  praise  might 

yield  returns, 
And  a  handsome  word  or  two  give 

help, 
Here,  after  your   kind,  the    mastiff 

girns, 
And  the  puppy  pack    of   poodles 

yelp. 

What,  not  a  word  for  Stefano  there, 

Of  brow  once  prominent  and  starry, 

Called  Nature's  Ape  and  the  world's 

despair 

For  his  peerless  painting  ?  (see  Va- 
sari.) 


There  stands  the  Master.     Study,  my 

friends, 
What  a  man's  work  comes  to  !    So 

he  plans  it, 

Performs  it,  perfects  it,  makes  amends 
For  the  toiling  and  moiling,  and 

then,  sic  transit ! 

Happier  the  thrifty  blind-folk  labor, 
With  upturned  eye  while  the  hand 

is  busy, 
Not  sidling  a  glance  at  the  coin  of 

their  neighbor ! 

'Tis  looking  downward  makes  one 
dizzy. 

XI. 

"  If  you  knew  their  work  you  would 

deal  your  dole." 

May  I  take  upon  me  to  instruct 
YOU? 


When  Greek  Art  ran  and  reached  the 

goal, 
Thus  much  had  the  world  to  boast 

infructu  — 
The  Truth  of  Man,  as  by  God  first 

spoken, 

Which  the  actual  generations  gar- 
ble, 
Was    re-uttered,    and    Soul    (which 

Limbs  betoken) 

And  Limbs  (Soul   informs)    made 
new  in  marble. 


So,  you  saw  yourself  as  you  wished 

you  were, 
As  you  might  have  been,  as  you 

cannot  be ; 
Earth    here,    rebuked    by    Olympus 

there  : 

And  grew  content  in  your  poor  de- 
gree 
With    your    little    power,    by  those 

statues'  godhead, 
And  your  little  scope,  by  their  eyes' 

full  sway, 
And  your  little  grace,  by  their  grace 

embodied, 

And  your  little  date,  by  their  forms 
that  stay. 

XIII. 

You  would  fain  be  kinglier,  say,  than 

lam? 

Even  so,  you  will  not  sit  like  The- 
seus. 
You  would  prove  a  model  ?    The  Son 

of  Priam 
Has  yet  the  advantage  in  arms'  and 

knees'  use. 
You're  wroth  —  can    you    slay    your 

snake  like  Apollo  ? 
You're   grieved  —  still  Niobe's  the 

grander ! 
You  live  —  there's  the  Racers'  frieze 

to  follow : 

You  die  —  there's  the  dying  Alex- 
ander. 


So,  testing  your  weakness  by  their 

strength, 
Your    meagre     charms     by    their 

rounded  beauty, 
Measured  by  Art  in  your  breadth  and 

length, 

You  learned  —  to  submit  is  a  mor- 
tal's duty- 


OLD  PICTURES  IN  FLORENCE. 


—  When  I  say  "  you,"  'tis  the  common 

soul, 
The  collective,  I  mean  :  the  race  of 

Man 
That  receives  life  in  parts  to  live  in  a 

whole, 

And  grow  here  according  to  God's 
clear  plan. 


Growth  came  when,  looking  your  last 

on  them  all, 
You  turned  your  eyes  inwardly  one 

fine  day 
And  cried  with  a  start  —  What  if  we 

so  small 
Be  greater  and  grander  the  while 

than  they  ? 

Are  they  perfect  of  lineament,  per- 
fect of  stature  ? 

In  both,  of  such  lower  types  are  we 

Precisely  because  of  our  wider  nature ; 

For  time,  theirs  —  ours,  for  eternity. 


To-day's    brief   passion   limits   their 

range  ; 
It  seethes  with  the  morrow  for  us 

and  more. 
They   are   perfect  — how  else?  they 

shall  never  change  : 
We  are  faulty  —  why  not  ?  we  have 

time  in  store. 

The  Artificer's  hand  is  not  arrested 
With  us  ;  we  are  rough-hewn,  no- 
wise polished. 
They  stand  for  our  copy,  and,  once 

invested 

With  all  they  can  teach,  we  shall 
see  them  abolished. 

XVII. 

'Tis  a  life-long  toil  till  our  lump  be 

leaven  — 

The  better  !    What's  come  to  per- 
fection perishes. 
Things  learned   on   earth,  we   shall 

practise  in  heaven : 
Works  done  least  rapidly,  Art  most 

cherishes. 
Thyself    shalt   afford   the    example, 

Giotto  ! 
Thy  one  work,  not  to  decrease  or 

diminish, 
Done  at  a  stroke,  was  just  (was  it 

not?)"O" 

Thy  great  Campanile  is  .still  to  fin- 
ish. 


XVIII. 

Is  it  true  that  we  are  now,  and  shall 

be  hereafter, 
But  what  and    where   depend   on 

life's  minute  ? 
Hails    heavenly    cheer    or    infernal 

laughter 
Our  first  step  out  of  the  gulf  or  in 

it? 

Shall  Man,  such  step  within  his  en- 
deavor, 
Man's  face,  have  no  more  play  and 

action 

Than  joy  which  is  crystallized  forever, 
Or  grief,  an  eternal  petrifaction  ? 

XIX. 

On  which  I  conclude,  that  the  early 

painters, 
To  cries  of  "  Greek  Art  and  what 

more  wish  you  ?  "  — 
Replied,   "  To   become  now   self-ao 

quainters, 
And  paint  man,  man,  whatever  the 

,  issue  ! 
Make  new  hopes  shine  through  the 

flesh  they  fray, 
New  fears  aggrandize  the  rags  and 

tatters  : 

To  bring  the  invisible  full  into  play, 
Let  the   visible  go  to  the  dogs  — 
what  matters  ?  " 


Give  these,  I  exhort  you,  their  guer- 
don and  glory 
For  daring  so  much,  before  they 

well  did  it. 
The  first  of  the  new,  in  our  race's 

story, 
Beats  the  last  of  the  old  ;  'tis  no 

idle  quiddit. 

The  worthies  began  a  revolution, 
Which  if  on  earth  you  intend  to 

acknowledge, 

Why,  honor  them  now !  (ends  my  al- 
locution) 

Nor  confer  your  degree  when  the 
folks  leave  college. 


There's  a  fancy  some   lean  to  and 

others  hate  — 

That,  when  this  life  is  ended,  begins 
New   work  for  the  soul  in  another 

state, 

Where  it  strives  and  gets  weary, 
loses  and  wins  : 


208 


OLD  PICTURES  IN   FLORENCE. 


Where  the  strong  and  the  weak,  this 

world's  congeries, 
Repeat  in  large  what  they  practised 

in  small, 
Through  life  after  life  in  unlimited 

series ; 

Only   the   scale's   to   be   changed, 
that's  all. 

xxn. 
Yet  I  hardly  know.    When  a  soul  has 

seen 
By  the  means  of  "Evil  that  Good  is 

best, 
And,  through   earth    and  its  noise, 

what  is  heaven's  serene,  — 
When  our  faith  in  the  same  has 

stood  the  test — 
Why,  the  child  grown  man,  you  burn 

the  rod, 

The  uses  of  labor  are  surely  done  ; 
There  remaineth  a  rest  for  the  people 

of  God : 

And  I  have  had  troubles  enough, 
for  one. 

xxm. 

But  at  any  rate  I  have  loved  the  sea- 
son 
Of  Art's  spring-birth  so  dim  and 

dewy  ; 
My  sculptor  is  Nicolo  the  Pisan, 

My  painter  — who  but  Cimabue  ? 
Nor"  even  was  man  of  them  all  in- 
deed, 
From  these  to  Ghiberti  and  Ghir- 

landajo, 

Could  say-that  he  missed  my  critic- 
meed. 

So,  now  to  my  special  grievance  — 
heigh-ho ! 

XXIV. 

Their  ghosts  still  stand,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, 
Watching  each  fresco  flaked   and 

rasped, 

Blocked  up,  knocked  out,  or  white- 
washed o'er : 
—  No  getting  again  what  the  Church 

has  grasped ! 
The  works  on  the  wall  must  take 

their  chance ; 

"Works  never  conceded  to   Eng- 
land's thick  clime  ! " 
(I  hope  they  prefer  their  inheritance 
Of   a   bucketful  of  Italian   Quick- 
lime.) 


When  they  go  at  length,  with  such  a 

shaking 

Of  heads  o'er  the  old  delusion,  sadly 
Each   master   his   way   through    the 

black  streets  taking, 
Where  many  a  lost  work  breathes 

though  badly  — 
Why  don't  they  bethink  them  of  who 

has  merited  ? 

Why  not  reveal,  while   their  pic- 
tures dree 
Such  doom,  how  a  captive  might  be 

out-ferreted  ? 
Why  is  it  they  never  remember  me  ? 


Not  that  I  expect  the  great  Bigordi, 
Nor  Sandro  to  hear  me,  chivalric, 

bellicose  ; 
Nor  the  wronged  Lippino  ;  and  not  a 

word  I 

Say  of  a  scrap  of  Fra  Angelico's  : 
But  are  you  too  fine,  Taddeo  Gaddi, 

To  grant  me  a  taste  of  your  intonaco, 
Some  Jerome  that  seeks  the  heaven 

with  a  sad  eye  ? 

Not  a  churlish  saint,  Lorenzo  Mo- 
naco ? 

XX  VII. 

Could  not  the  ghost  with  the  close  red 

cap, 

My  Pollajolo,  the   twice  a  crafts- 
man, 

Save  me  a  sample,  give  me  the  hap 
Of  a  muscular  Christ  that  shows 

the  draughtsman  ? 

No  Virgin  by  him  the  somewhat  petty, 
Of     finical     touch     and     tempera 

crumbly — 

Could  not  Alesso  Baldovinetti 
Contribute    so    much,  I    ask    him 
humbly  ? 

XXVIII. 

Margheritone  of  Arezzo, 
With  the  grave-clothes  garb    and 

swaddling  barret 
(Why  purse  up  mouth  and  beak  in  a 

pet  so, 
You  bald  old  saturnine  poll-clawed 

parrot  ?) 

Not  a  poor  glimmering  Crucifixion, 
Where  in  the  foreground  kneels  the 

donor  ? 

If  such  remain,  as  is  my  conviction. 
The  hoarding  it  doe*  you  but  little 
honor. 


T.  £                                            OLD  PICTURES   IN   FLORENCE.                             209        i[  « 

XXIX. 

They  pass  ;  for  them  the  panels  may 

None  of  that  shooting  the  sky  (blank 
cartridge), 

thrill, 

Nor  a  civic  guard,  all  plumes  and 

The  tempera  grow  alive  and  tin- 
glish  : 
Their  pictures  are  left  to  the  mercies 
still 

lacquer, 
Hunting  Radetzky's  soul  like  a  par-        J 
tridge                                                        I 
Over  Morello  with  squib  and  crack- 

Of dealers  and  stealers,  Jews  and 

er. 

the  English, 

Who,  seeing  mere  money's  worth  in 
their  prize, 

XXXIII. 

This  time  we'll  shoot  better  game  and 

Will  sell  it  to  somebody  calm  as 
Zeno 

bag  'em  hot  : 
No  mere  display  at  the  stone    of 

At  naked  High  Art,  and  in  ecstasies 
Before  some  clay-cold  vile  Carlino  ! 

Dante, 
But  a  kind  of  sober  Witanagemot 
(Ex  :    "  Casa  Guidi,"  quod   videos 

ante) 

XXX. 

Shall  ponder,  once  Freedom  restored 

No  matter  for  these  !     But  Giotto, 

to  Florence, 

you, 

How  Art  may  return  that  departed 

Have  you  allowed,  as  the    town- 

with  her. 

tongues  babble  it  — 

Go,  hated  house,  go  each  trace  of  the 

Oh,  never  !  it  shall  not  be  counted 

Loraine's, 

true  — 

And  bring  us  the  days  of  Orgagna 

That  a  certain  precious  little  tablet 

hither  ! 

Which  Buonarroti  eyed  like  a  lover, 

XXXIV. 

Was  buried  so  long  in  oblivion's 
womb 

How  we  shall    prologuize,  how  we 

And,  left  for  another  than  I  to  dis- 
cover, 
Turns  up  at  last  !  and  to  whom  ?  — 

shall  perorate, 
Utter  fit  things  upon  art  and  history, 
Feel  truth  at  blood-heat  and  falsehood 

to  whom  ? 

at  zero  rate, 

Make  of  the  want  of  the  age  no 

mystery  , 

XXXI. 

Contrast   the    fructuous  and    sterile 

I,  that  have  haunted  the  dim   San 

eras, 

Spirito, 

Show  —  monarchy  ever  its  uncouth 

(Or  was  it  rather  the  Ognissanti  ?) 
Patient  on  altar-step  planting  a  weary 

cub  licks 
Out  of  the  bear's  shape  into  Chimje- 

toe  ! 

ra's, 

Nay,  I  shall  have  it   yet  I    Detur 

While  Pure  Art's  birth  is  still  the 

amanti  I 

republic's  ! 

My  Koh-i-noor  —  or  (if  that's  a  plati- 

tude) 

XXXV. 

Jewel  of   Giamschid,  the    Persian 

Then  one  shall  propose  in  a  speech 

Soft's  eye  ; 

(curt  Tuscan, 

So,  in  anticipative  gratitude, 
What  if  1  take  up  my  hope  and 
prophesy  ? 

Expurgate  and  sober,  with  scarcely 
an  "  issimo  "), 
To  end  now  our  half-told  tale  of  Cam- 
buscan, 

And  turn  the   bell-tower's   alt    to 

XXXII. 

altisstmo  : 

When  the  hour  grows  ripe,  and  a  cer- 

And, fine  as  the  beak  of  a  young 

tain  dotard 

beccaccia, 

If*             Is  pitched,  no  parcel  that  needs  in- 

The Campanile,  the    Duomo's    fit       *\  p 

voicing, 

ally, 

To  the  worst  side  of  the  Mont  St. 
Gothard, 

Shall  soar  up  in  gold  full  fifty  braccia, 
Completing  Florence,  a*  Florence, 

We  shall  begin  by  way  of  rejoicing; 

Italy. 

± 

^1  1  G-+  —  i                                                                                                       f.  f—  a  1  '   U-" 

210 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


Shall  I  be  alive  that  morning  the  scaf- 
fold 
Is  broken  away,  and  the  long-pent 

fire, 
Like  the  golden  hope  of  the  world, 

unbaffled 
Springs  from  its  sleep,  and  up  goes 

the  spire, 
While,  "God  and  the  People"  plain 

for  its  motto, 
Thence  the  new  tricolor  flaps  at  the 

sky? 
At    least    to    foresee  that   glory  of 

Giotto 

And  Florence  together,  the  first  am 
I! 

NOTE.  —  The  space  left  here  tempts  to  a 
word  on  the  line  about  Apollo  the  snake- 
slayer,  which  my  friend  Professor  Colvin 
condemns,  believing  that  the  God  of  the 
Belvedere  grasps  no  bow,  but  the  ^Egis,  as 
described  in  the  15th  Iliad.  Surely  the  text 
represents  that  portentous  object  (Oovpiv, 


Seivrjv,  d^rfti&acreLai',  apurpfTri'  — /u.ap/xapoji') 
as  "  shaken  violently  "  or  "  held  immova- 
bly" by  both  hands,  not  a  single  one,  and 
that  the  left  hand :  — 

dAAa    <rv    y     ev    \eipecrai   Aa/5'    alyi&a.    Ovcra- 

voetraav 
TT)I>  /u.dA'  en-iercretW  tj>ofleeiv   TJpcoas  "A^aious. 

and  SO  oil,  •rijr  ap'  6  y  ec  Xe<-ptv<T<-v  exmv 
—  \epo\v  e\  arpe/na,  <t.  T.  A.  Moreover, 
while  he  shook  it  he  "  shouted  enormously," 
(T€tcr',  eiri  &'  auTO?  auae  /xaAa  fieyai  Which 

the  statue  does  not.  Presently  when  Teuk- 
ros,  on  the  other  side,  plies  the  bow,  it  is 

Togov    efx""'    *"    X€'P'    ira-MvTOVov.       Besides, 

by  the  act  of  discharging  an  arrow,  the  right 
arm  and  hand  are  thrown  back  as  we  see,  — 
a  quite  gratuitous  and  theatrical  display  in 
the  case  supposed.  The  conjecture  of  Flax- 
man  that  the  statue  was  suggested  by  the 
bronze  Apollo  Alexikakos  of  Kalamis,  men- 
tioned by  Pausanias,  remains  probable  ; 
though  the  "hardness"  which  Cicero  con- 
siders to  distinguish  the  artist's  workmanship 
from  that  of  Muron  is  not  by  any  means  ap- 
parent in  our  marble  copy,  if  it  be  one.  — 
Feb.  16,  1880. 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 

No  more  wine  ?  then  we'll  push  back  chairs  and  talk. 
A  final  glass  for  me,  though  :  cool,  i'  faith  ! 
We  ought  to  have  our  Abbey  back,  you  see. 
It's  different,  preaching  in  basilicas, 
And  doing  duty  in  some  masterpiece 
Like  this  of  brother  Pugiii's,  bless  his  heart ! 
I  doubt  if  they're  half  baked,  those  chalk  rosettes, 
Ciphers  and  stucco-twiddlings  everywhere  ; 
It's  just  like  breathing  in  a  lime-kiln  :  eh  ? 
These  hot,  long  ceremonies  of  our  Church 
Cost  us  a  little  —  oh,  they  pay  the  price, 
You  take  me  —  amply  pay  it !    Now  we'll  talk. 

So,  you  despise  me,  Mr.  Gigadibs. 
No  deprecation,  —  nay,  I  beg  you,  sir  ! 
Beside  'tis  our  engagement  :  don't  you  know, 
I  promised,  if  you'd  watch  a  dinner  out, 
We'd  see  truth  dawn  together?  —  truth  that  peeps 
Over  the  glass's  edge  when  dinner's  done, 
And  body  gets  its  sop  and  holds  its  noise, 
And  leaves  soul  free  a  little.    Now's  the  time  : 
'Tis  break  of  day  !    You  do  despise  me  then. 
And  if  I  say,  "  despise  me,"  —  never  fear  1 
I  know  you  do  not  in  a  certain  sense  — 
Not  in  my  arm-chair,  for  example  :  here. 
I  will  imagine  you  respect  my  place 
(Status,  entourage,  worldly  circumstance) 


Bishop  Blougram's  Apology.  —  Page  air. 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM 'S  APOLOGY. 


211 


Quite  to  its  value  —  very  much  indeed  : 

—  Are  up  to  the  protesting  eyes  of  you 

In  pride  at  being  seated  here  for  once  — 

You'll  turn  it  to  such  capital  account ! 

When  somebody,  through  years  and  years  to  come, 

Hints  of  the  bishop,  —  names  me  —  that's  enough  : 

"  Blougram  ?    I  knew  him  "  —  (into  it  you  slide) 

"  Dined  with  him  once,  a  Corpus  Christ!  Day, 

All  alone,  we  two  ;  he's  a  clever  man  : 

And  after  dinner,  —  why,  the  wine  you  know, — 

Oh,  there  was  wine,  and  good  !  — what  with  the  wine  .  . 

'Faith,  we  began  upon  all  sorts  of  talk  ! 

He's  no  bad  fellow,  Blougram  ;  he  had  seen 

Something  of  mine  he  relished,  some  review  : 

He's  quite  above  their  humbug  in  his  heart, 

Half  said  as  much,  indeed  —  the  thing's  his  trade. 

I  warrant,  Blougram's  sceptical  at  times  : 

How  otherwise  ?    I  like  him,  I  confess  ! " 

Chu  die,  my  dear  sir,  as  we  say  at  Rome, 

Don't  you 'protest  now  !    It's  fair  give  and  take  ; 

You  have  had  your  turn,  and  spoken  your  home-truths 

The  hand's  mine  now,  and  here  you  follow  suit. 

Thus  much  conceded,  still  the  first  fact  stays  — 
You  do  despise  me  ;  your  ideal  of  life 
Is  not  the  bishop's  :  you  would  not  be  I. 
You  would  like  better  to  be  Goethe,  now, 
Or  Buonaparte,  or,  bless  me,  lower  still, 
Count  D'Orsay,  —  so  you  did  what  you  preferred, 
Spoke  as  you  thought,  and,  as  you  cannot  help, 
Believed  or  disbelieved,  no  matter  what, 
So  long  as  on  that  point,  whate'er  it  was, 
You  loosed  your  mind,  were  whole  and  sole  yourself 
—  That,  my  ideal  never  can  include, 
Upon  that  element  of  truth  and  worth 
Never  be  based  !  for  say  they  make  me  Pope 
(They  can't  — suppose  it  for  our  argument), 
Why,  there  I'm  at  my  tether's  end,  I've  reached 
My  height,  and  not  a  height  which  pleases  you  : 
An  unbelieving  Pope  won't  do,  you  say. 
It's  like  those  eerie  stories  nurses  tell, 
Of  how  some  actor  played  Death  on  a  stage, 
With  pasteboard  crown,  sham  orb,  and  tinselled  dart; 
And  called  himself  the  monarch  of  the  world  ; 
Then,  going  in  the  tire-room  afterward, 
Because  the  play  was  done,  to  shift  himself, 
Got  touched  upon  the  sleeve  familiarly, 
The  moment  he  had  shut  the  closet  door, 
By  Death  himself.    Thus  God  might  touch  a  Pope 
At  unawares,  ask  what  his  baubles  mean, 
And  whose  part  he  presumed  to  play  just  now  ? 
Best  be  yourself,  imperial,  plain,  and  true  ! 

So,  drawing  comfortable  breath  again, 
You  weigh  and  find,  whatever  more  or  less 
I  boast  of  my  ideal  realized, 
Is  nothing  in  the  balance  when  opposed 
To  your  ideal,  your  grand  simple  life, 
Of  which  you  will  not  realize  one  jot. 


212 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


I  am  much,  you  are  nothing  ;  you  would  be  all, 
I  would  be  merely  much  :  you  beat  me  there. 

No,  friend,  you  do  not  beat  me  :  hearken  why  ! 
The  common  problem,  yours,  mine,  every  one's, 
Is  —  not  to  fancy  what  were  fair  in  life 
Provided  it  could  be,  —  but,  rinding  first 
What  may  be,  then  rind  how  to  make  it  fair 
Up  to  our  means  :  a  very  different  thing  ! 
No  abstract  intellectual  plan  of  life 
Quite  irrespective  of  life's  plainest  laws, 
But  one,  a  man,  who  is  man  and  nothing  more, 
May  lead  within  a  world  which  (by  your  leave) 
Is  Rome  or  London,  not  Fool's-paradise. 
Embellish  Rome,  idealize  away, 
Make  paradise  of  London  if  you  can, 
You're  welcome,  nay,  you're  wise. 

A  simile  ! 

We  mortals  cross  the  ocean  of  this  world 
Each  in  his  average  cabin  of  a  life  ; 
The  best's  not  big,  the  worst  yields  elbow-room. 
Now  for  our  six  months'  voyage  —  how  prepare  ? 
You  come  on  shipboard  with  a  landsman's  list 
Of  things  he  calls  convenient :  so  they  are  ! 
An  India  screen  is  pretty  furniture, 
A  piano-forte  is  a  fine  resource, 
All  Balzac's  novels  occupy  one  shelf, 
The  new  edition  fifty  volumes  long  ; 
And  little  Greek  books,  with  the  funny  type 
They  get  up  well  at  Leipsic,  fill  the  next : 
Go  on  !  slabbed  marble,  what  a  bath  it  makes  ! 
And  Parma's  pride,  the  Jerome,  let  us  add  ! 
'Twere  pleasant  could  Correggio's  fleeting  glow 
Hang  full  in  face  of  one  where'er  one  roams, 
Since  he  more  than  the  others  brings  with  him 
Italy's  self,  — the  marvellous  Modenese  !  — 
Yet  was  not  on  your  list  before,  perhaps 
—  Alas,  friend  !  here's  the  agent  .  .  .  is't  the  name  ? 
The  captain,  or  whoever's  master  here  — 
You  see  him  screw  his  face  up  ;  what's  his  cry 
Ere  you  set  foot  on  shipboard  ?    "  Six  feet  square  I  " 
If  you  won't  understand  what  six  feet  mean, 
Compute  and  purchase  stores  accordingly  — 
And  if,  in  pique  because  he  overhauls 
Your  Jerome,  piano  and  bath,  you  come  on  board 
Bare  —  why,  you  cut  a  figure  at  the  first 
While  sympathetic  landsmen  see  you  off  ; 
Not  afterward,  when  long  ere  half  seas  over, 
You  peep  up  from  your  utterly  naked  boards 
Into  some  snug  and  well-appointed  berth, 
Like  mine  for  instance  (try  the  cooler  jug  — 
Put  back  the  other,  but  don't  jog  the  ice  !) 
And  mortified  you  mutter  "  Well  and  good  ; 
He  sits  enjoying  his  sea-furniture  ; 
'Tis  stout  and  proper,  and  there's  store  of  it : 
Though  I've  the  better  notion,  all  agree, 
Of  fitting  rooms  up.    Hang  the  carpenter, 
Neat  ship-shape  fixings  and  contrivances  — 


BISHOP  BLOU GRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


213       5 


I  would  have  brought  my  Jerome,  frame  and  all !  " 
And  meantime  you  bring  nothing  :  never  mind  — 
You've  proved  your  artist-nature  :  what  you  don't 
You  might  bring,  so  despise  me,  as  I  say. 

Now  coine,  let's  backward  to  the  starting-place. 
See  my  way  :  we're  two  college  friends,  suppose. 
Prepare  together  for  our  voyage,  then  ; 
Each  note  and  check  the  other  in  his  work,  — 
Here's  mine,  a  bishop's  outfit ;  criticise  ! 
What's  wrong  ?  why  won't  you  be  a  bishop  too  ? 

"Why  first,  you  don't  believe,  you  don't  and  can't 
(Not  statedly,  that  is,  and  fixedly 
Acd  absolutely  and  exclusively), 
In  any  revelation  called  divine. 
No  dogmas  nail  your  faith  ;  and  what  remains 
But  say  so,  like  the  honest  man  you  are  ? 
First,  therefore,  overhaul  theology  ! 
Nay,  I  too,  not  a  fool,  you  please  to  think, 
Must  find  believing  every  whit  as  hard  : 
And  if  I  do  not  frankly  say  as  much. 
The  ugly  consequence  is  clear  enough. 

Now  wait,  my  friend  :  well,  I  do  not  believe  — 
If  you'll  accept  no  faith  that  is  not  fixed, 
Absolute  and  exclusive,  as  you  say. 
You're  wrong  —  I  mean  to  prove  it  in  due  time. 
Meanwhile,  I  know  where  difficulties  lie 
I  could  not,  cannot  solve,  nor  ever  shall, 
So  give  up  hope  accordingly  to  solve  — 
(To  you,  and  over  the  wine).    Our  dogmas  then 
With  both  of  us,  though  in  unlike  degree, 
Missing  full  credence  —  overboard  with  them  ! 
I  mean  to  meet  you  on  your  own  premise  : 
Good,  there  go  mine  in  company  with  yours  ! 

And  now  what  are  we  ?  unbelievers  both, 
Calm  and  complete,  determinate!;  fixed 
To-day,  to-morrow,  and  forever,  pray  ? 
You'll  guarantee  me  that  ?    Not  so,  I  think  ! 
In  no  wise  !  all  we've  gained  is,  that  belief, 
As  unbelief  before,  shakes  us  by  tits, 
Confounds  us  like  its  predecessor.  Where's 
The  gain  ?  how  can  we  guard  our  unbelief, 
Make  it  bear  fruit  to  us  ?  —  the  problem  here. 
Just  when  we  are  safest,  there's  a  sunset-touch, 
A  fancy  from  a  flower-bell,  some  one's  death, 
A  chorus-ending  from  Euripides,  — 
And  that's  enough  for  fifty  hopes  and  fears 
As  old  and  new  at  once  as  nature's  self, 
To  rap  and  knock  and  enter  in  our  soul, 
Take  hands  and  dance  there,  a  fantastic  ring, 
Round  the  ancient  idol,  on  his  base  again,— 
The  grand  Perhaps  !    We  look  on  helplessly. 
There  the  old  misgivings,  crooked  questions  are  — 
This  good  God,  —  what  he  could  do,  if  he  would, 
Would,  if  he  could  —  then  must  have  done  long  since 
If  so,  when,  w"nere,  and  how  ?  some  way  must  be,  — 


214 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S   APOLOGY. 


Once  feel  about,  and  soon  or  late  you  hit 
Some  sense,  in  which  it  might  be,  after  all. 
Why  not  "  The  Way,  the  Truth,  the  Life  "  ? 

That  way 

Over  the  mountain,  which  who  stands  upon 
Is  apt  to  doubt  if  it  be  indeed  a  road  ; 
While  if  he  views  it  from  the  waste  itself, 
Up  goes  the  line  there,  plain  from  base  to  brow, 
Not  vague,  mistakable  !  what's  a  break  or  two 
Seen  from  the  unbroken  desert  either  side  ? 
And  then  (to  bring  in  fresh  philosophy) 
What  if  the  breaks  themselves  should  prove  at  last 
The  most  consummate  of  contrivances 
To  train  a  man's  eye,  teach  him  what  is  faith  ? 
And  so  we  stumble  at  truth's  very  test ! 
All  we  have  gained  then  by  our  unbelief 
Is  a  life  of  doubt  diversified  by  faith, 
For  one  of  faith  diversified  by  doubt  : 
We  called  the  chess-board  white,  —  we  call  it  black. 

"  Well,"  you  rejoin,  "  the  end's  no  worse,  at  least ; 
We've  reason  for  both  colors  on  the  board  : 
Why  not  confess  then,  where  I  drop  the  faith 
And  you  the  doubt,  that  I'm  as  right  as  you  ?  " 

Because,  friend,  in  the  next  place,  this  being  so, 
And  both  things  even,  — faith  and  unbelief 
Left  to  a  man's  choice,  —  we'll  proceed  a  step, 
Returning  to  our  image,  which  I  like. 

A  man's  choice,  yes  —  but  a  cabin  passenger's  — 
The  man  made  for  the  special  life  o'  the  world  — 
Do  you  forget  him  ?    I  remember  though  ! 
Consult  our  ship's  conditions  and  you  find 
One  and  but  one  choice  suitable  to  all  ; 
The  choice,  that  you  unluckily  prefer, 
Turning  things  topsy-turvy  —  they  or  it 
Going  to  the  ground.    Belief  or  unbelief 
Bears  upon  life,  determines  its  whole  course, 
Begins  at  its  beginning.    See  the  world 
Such  as  it  is,  —  you  made  it  not,  nor  I ; 
I  mean  to  take  it  as  it  is,  —  and  you, 
Not  so  you'll  take  it,  —  though  you  get  naught  else. 
I  know  the  special  kind  of  life  I  like, 
What  suits  the  most  my  idiosyncrasy, 
Brings  out  the  best  of  me  and  bears  me  fruit 
In  power,  peace,  pleasantness,  and  length  of  days. 
I  find  that  positive  belief  does  this 
For  me,  and  unbelief,  no  whit  of  this. 
—  For  you,  it  does,  however  ?  — that,  we'll  try ! 
'Tis  clear,  I  cannot  lead  my  life,  at  least, 
Induce  the  world  to  let  me.  peaceably, 
Without  declaring  at  the  outset,  "  Friends, 
I  absolutely  and  peremptorily 
Believe  !  "  —  I  say,  faith  is  miy  waking  life  : 
One  sleeps,  indeed,  and  dreams  at  intervals, 
We  know,  but  waking's  the  main  point  with  us, 
And  my  provision's  for  life's  waking  part. 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


215 


Accordingly,  I  use  heart,  head,  and  hand 

All  day,  I  build,  scheme,  study,  and  make  friends  ; 

And  when  night  overtakes  me,  down  I  lie, 

Sleep,  dream  a  little,  and  get  done  with  it, 

The  sooner  the  better,  to  begin  afresh. 

What's  midnight  doubt  before  the  dayspring's  faith  ? 

You,  the  philosopher,  that  disbelieve, 

That  recognize  the  night,  give  dreams  their  weight  — 

To  be  consistent  you  should  keep  your  bed, 

Abstain  from  healthy  acts  that  prove  you  man, 

For  fear  you  drowse  perhaps  at  unawares  ! 

And  certainly  at  night  you'll  sleep  and  dream, 

Live  through  the  day  and  bustle  as  you  please. 

And  so  you  live  to  sleep  as  i  to  wake, 

To  unbelieve  as  I  to  still  believe  ? 

Well,  and  the  common  sense  o'  the  world  calls  you 

Bed-ridden,  — and  its  good  things  come  to  me. 

Its  estimation,  which  is  half  the  fight, 

That's  the  first-cabin  comfort  I  secure  : 

The  next  .  .  .  but  you  perceive  \vithhalf  an  eye  ! 

Come,  come,  it's  best  believing,  it  we  may  ; 

You  can't  but  own  that ! 

Next,  concede  again 

If  once  we  choose  belief,  on  all  accounts 
We  can't  be  foo  decisive  in  our  faith, 
Conclusive  and  exclusive  in  its  terms, 
To  suit  the  world  which  gives  us  the  good  things. 
In  every  man's  career  are  certain  points 
Whereon  he  dares  not  be  indifferent ; 
The  world  detects  him  clearly,  if  he  dare, 
As  baffled  at  the  game,  and  losing  life. 
He  may  care  little  or  he  may  care  much 
For  riches,  honor,  pleasure,  work,  repose, 
Since  various  theories  of  life  and  life's 
Success  are  extant  which  might  easily 
Comport  with  either  estimate  of  these  ; 
And  whoso  chooses  wealth  or  poverty, 
Labor  or  quiet,  is  not  judged  a  fool 
Because  his  fellow  would  choose  otherwise  : 
We  let  him  choose  upon  his  own  account 
So  long  as  he's  consistent  with  his  choice. 
But  certain  points,  left  wholly  to  himself, 
When  once  a  man  has  arbitrated  on, 
We  say  he  must  succeed  there  or  go  hang. 
Thus,  he  should  wed  the  woman  he  loves  most 
Or  needs  most,  whatsoe'er  the  love  or  need  — 
For  he  can't  wed  twice.     Then,  he  must  avouch, 
Or  follow,  at  the  least,  sufficiently, 
The  form  of  faith  his  conscience  holds  the  best, 
Whate'er  the  process  of  conviction  was  : 
For  nothing  can  compensate  his  mistake 
On  such  a  point,  the  man  himself  being  judge  : 
He  cannot  wed  twice,  nor  twice  lose  his  soul. 

Well  now,  there's  one  great  form  of  Christian  raith 
I  happened  to  be  born  in  —  which  to  teach 
Was  given  me  as  I  grew  up,  on  all  hands. 
As  best  and  readiest  means  of  living  m  ; 


216 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM-'S   APOLOGY. 


The  same  on  examination  being  proved 

The  most  pronounced  moreover,  fixed,  precise 

And  absolute  form  of  faith  in  the  whole  world  — 

Accordingly,  most  potent  of  all  forms 

For  working  on  the  world.    Observe,  my  friend  ! 

Such  as  you  know  me,  I  am  free  to  say, 

In  these  hard  latter  days  which  hamper  one, 

Myself—  by  no  immoderate  exercise 

Of  intellect  and  learning,  but  the  tact 

To  let  external  forces  work  for  me, 

—  Bid  the  street's  stones  be  bread  and  they  are  bread  \ 

Bid  Peter's  creed,  or  rather,  Hildebrand's, 

Exalt  me  o'er  my  fellows  in  the  world 

And  make  my  life  an  ease  and  joy  and  pride  : 

It  does  so,  —  which  for  me's  a  great  point  gained, 

Who  have  a  soul  and  body  that  exact 

A  comfortable  care  in  many  ways. 

There's  power  in  me  and  will  to  dominate 

Which  I  must  exercise,  they  hurt  me  else  : 

In  many  ways  I  need  mankind's  respect, 

Obedience,  and  the  love  that's  born  of  fear  : 

While  at  the  same  time,  there's  a  taste  I  have, 

A  toy  of  soul,  a  titillating  thing, 

Refuses  to  digest  these  dainties  crude. 

The  naked  life  is  gross  till  clothed  upon  : 

I  must  take  what  men  offer,  with  a  grace 

As  though  I  would  not,  could  I  help  it,  take  ! 

An  uniform  I  wear  though  over-rich  — 

Something  imposed  on  me,  no  choice  of  mine  ; 

No  fancy-dress  worn  for  pure  fancy's  sake 

And  despicable  therefore  !  now  folks  kneel 

And  kiss  my  hand  —of  course  the  Church's  hand. 

Thus  I  am  made,  thus  life  is  best  for  me, 

And  thus  that  it  should  be  I  have  procured  ; 

And  thus  it  could  not  be  another  way, 

I  venture  to  imagine. 

You'll  reply, 

So  far  my  choice,  no  doubt,  is  a  success  ; 
But  were  I  made  of  better  elements, 
With  nobler  instincts,  purer  tastes,  like  you, 
I  hardly  would  account  the  thing  success 
Though  it  did  all  for  me  I  say. 

But,  friend, 

We  speak  of  what  is  ;  not  of  what  might  be, 
And  how  'twere  better  if  'twere  otherwise 
I  am  the  man  you  see  here  plain  enough  : 
Grant  I'm  a  beast,  why,  beasts  must  lead  beasts'  lives  I 
Suppose  I  own  at  once  to  tail  and  claws  ; 
The  tailless  man  exceeds  me  :  but  being  tailed 
I'll  lash  out  lion  fashion,  and  leave  apes 
To  dock  their  stump  and  dress  their  haunches  up. 
My  business  is  not  to  remake  myself, 
But  make  the  absolute  best  of  what  God  made. 
Or  —  our  first  simile  —  though  you  prove  me  doomed 
To  a  viler  berth  still,  to  the  steerage-hole, 
The  sheep-pen  or  the  pig-sty,  I  should  strive 
To  make  what  use  of  each  were  possible  ; 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


217 


And  as  this  cabin  gats  upholstery, 

That  hutch  should  rustle  with  sufficient  straw. 

But,  friend,  I  don't  acknowledge  quite  so  fast 
I  fail  of  all  your  manhood's  lofty  tastes 
Enumerated  so  complacently, 
On  the  mere  ground  that  you  forsooth  can  find 
In  this  particular  life  I  choose  to  lead 
No  fit  provision  for  them.    Can  you  not  ? 
Say  you,  my  fault  is  I  address  myself 
To  grosser  estimators  than  should  judge  ? 
And  that's  no  way  of  holding  up  the  soul, 
Which,  nobler,  needs  men's  praise  perhaps,  yet  knows 
One  wise  man's  verdict  outweighs  all  the  fools'  — 
Would  like  the  two,  hut,  forced  to  choose,  takes  that. 
I  pine  among  my  million  imbeciles 
(You  think)  aware  some  dozen  men  of  sense 
Eye  me  and  know  me,  whether  I  believe 
In  the  last  winking  Virgin,  as  I  vow, 
And  am  a  fool,  or  disbelieve  in  her 
And  am  a  knave,  — approve  in  neither  case, 
Withhold  their  voices  though  I  look  their  way  : 
Like  Verdi  when,  at  his  worst  opera's  end 
(The  thing  they  gave  at  Florence  —  what's  its  name  ?) 
While  the  mad  housefuPs  plaudits  near  out-bang 
His  orchestra  of  salt-box,  tongs,  and  bones, 
He  looks  through  all  the  roaring  and  the  wreaths 
Where  sits  Rossini  patient  in  his  stall. 

Nay,  friend,  I  meet  you  with  an  answer  here  — 
That  even  your  prime  men  who  appraise  their  kind 
Are  men  still,  catch  a  wheel  within  a  wheel, 
See  more  in  a  truth  than  the  truth's  simple  self, 
Confuse  themselves.    You  see  lads  walk  the  street 
Sixty  the  minute  ;  what's  to  note  in  that  ? 
You  see  one  lad  o'erstride  a  chimney-stack  ; 
Him  you  must  watch  —  he's  sure  to  fall,  yet  stands  ! 
Our  interest's  on  the  dangerous  edge  of  things. 
The  honest  thief,  the  tender  murderer, 
The  superstitious  atheist,  demirep 
That  loves  ami  saves  her  soul  in  new  French  books  — 
We  watch  while  these  in  equilibrium  keep 
The  giddy  line  midway:  one  step  aside, 
They're  classed  and  done  with.    I,  then,  keep  the  line 
Before  your  sage.^.  —  just  the  men  to  shrink 
From  the  gross  weights,  coarse  scales,  and  labels  broad 
You  offer  their  refinement.    Fool,  or  knave  ? 
Why  needs  a  bishop  be  a  fool  or  knave 
When  there's  a  thousand  diamond  weights  between  ? 
So,  I  enlist  them.     Your  picked  twelve,  you'll  find, 
Profess  themselves  indignant,  scandalized 
At  thus  being  held  unable  to  explain 
How  a  superior  man  who  disbelieves 
May  not  believe  as  well  :  that's  Schelling's  way  ! 
It's  through  my  coming  in  the  tail  of  time, 
Nicking  the  minute  with  a  happy  tact. 
Had  I  been  born  three  hundred  years  ago 

They'd  say,  "  What's  strange  ?    Blougram  of  course  believes  ; ' 
And,  seventy  years  since,  "  disbelieves  of  course." 


218 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


But  now,  "  He  may  believe  ;  and  yet,  and  yet 

How  can  he  ?  "    All  eyes  turn  with  interest. 

Whereas,  step  off  the  line  on  either  side  — 

You,  for  example,  clever  to  a  fault, 

The  rough  and  ready  man  who  write  apace, 

Read  somewhat  seldomer,  think  perhaps  even  less — 

You  disbelieve  !     "Who  wonders  and  who  cares  ? 

Lord  So-and-so  — his  coat  bedropped  with  wax, 

All  Peter's  chains  about  his  waist,  his  back 

Brave  with  the  needlework  of  Noodledom  — 

Believes  !    Again,  who  wonders  and  who  cares  ? 

But  I,  the  man  of  sense  and  learning  too, 

The  able  to  think  yet  act,  the  this,  the  that, 

I,  to  believe  at  this  late  time  of  day  ! 

Enough  ;  you  see,  I  need  not  fear  contempt. 

—  Except  it's  yours  !    Admire  me  as  these  may, 
You  don't.     But  whom  at  least  do  you  admire  ? 
Present  your  own  perfection,  your  ideal, 
Your  pattern  man  for  a  minute  —  oh,  make  haste  ! 
Is  it  Napoleon  you  would  have  us  grow  ? 
Concede  the  means  ;  allow  his  head  and  hand 
(A  large  concession,  clever  as  you  are), 
Good  !    In  our  common  primal  element 
Of  unbelief  (we  can't  believe,  you  know  — 
We're  still  at  that  admission,  recollect !) 
Where  do  you  find  —  apart  from,  towering  o'er 
The  secondary  temporary  aims 
Which  satisfy  the  gross  taste  you  despise  — 
Where  do  you  find  his  star  ?  —  his  crazy  trust 
God  knows  through  what  or  in  what  ?  it's  alive 
And  shines  and  leads  him,  and  that's  all  we  want. 
Have  we  aught  in  our  sober  night  shall  point 
Such  ends  as  his  were,  and  direct  the  means 
Of  working  out  our  purpose  straight  as  his, 
Nor  bring  a  moment's  trouble  on  success 
With  after-care  to  justify  the  same  ? 
—  Be  a  Napoleon  and  yet  disbelieve  — 
Why,  the  man's  mad,  friend,  take  his  light  away  ! 
What's  the  vague  good  o'  the  world,  for  which  you  dare 
With  comfort  to  yourself  blow  millions  up  ? 
We  neither  of  us  see  it !  we  do  see 
The  blown-up  millions  —  spatter  of  their  brains 
And  writhing  of  their  bowels  and  so  forth, 
In  that  bewildering  entanglement 
Of  horrible  eventualities 
Past  calculation  to  the  end  of  time  ! 
Can  I  mistake  for  some  clear  word  of  God 
(Which  were  my  ample  warrant  for  it  all) 
His  puff  of  hazy  instinct,  idle  talk, 
"The  State,  that's  I,"  quack-nonsense  about  crowns, 
And  (when  one  beats  the  man  to  his  last  hold) 
A  vague  idea  of  setting  things  to  rights, 
Policing  people  efficaciously, 
More  to  their  profit,  most  of  all  to  his  own  ; 
The  whole  to  end  that  dismallest  of  ends 
By  an  Austrian  marriage,  cant  to  us  the  Church, 
And  resurrection  of  the  old  regime? 
Would  I,  who  hope  to  live  a  dozen  years, 
Fight  Austerlitz  for  reasons  such  aiid  such  ? 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


No  :  for,  concede  me  but  the  merest  chance 

Doubt  may  be  wrong —  there's  judgment,  life  to  come  I 

With  just  that  chance,  I  dare  not.    Doubt  proves  right  ? 

This  present  life  is  all  ?  — you  offer  me 

Its  dozen  noisy  years,  without  a  chance 

That  wedding  an  arch-duchess,  wearing  lace, 

And  getting  called  by  divers  new-coined  names, 

Will  drive  off  ugly  thoughts  and  let  me  dine. 

Sleep,  read,  and  chat  in  quiet  as  I  like  ! 

Therefore  I  will  not. 

Take  another  case, 
Fit  up  the  cabin  yet  another  way. 
What  say  you  to  the  poets  ?  shall  we  write 
Hamlet.  Othello  — make  the  world  our  own. 
Without  a  risk  to  run  of  either  sort  ? 
I  can't !  — to  put  the  strongest  reason  first. 
"  BuS  try,"  you  urge,  "  the  trying  shall  suffice  ; 
The  aim,  if  reached  or  not,  makes  great  the  life  : 
Try  to  be  ohakspeare,  leave  the  rest  to  fate  !  " 
Spare  my  self-knowledge  — there's  no  fooling  me  I 
If  I  prefer  remaining  my  poor  self, 
I  say  so  not  in  self-dispraise  but  praise. 
If  I'm  a  Shakspeare,  let  the  well  alone  ; 
Why  should  I  try  to  be  what  now  I  am  ? 
If  I'm  no  Shakspeare,  as  too  probable,  — 
His  power  and  consciousness  and  self-delight 
And  all  we  want  in  common,  shall  I  find  — 
Trying  forever?  while  on  points  of  taste 
Wherewith,  to  speak  it  humbly,  he  and  I 
Are  dowered  alike  — I'll  ask  you,  I  or  he, 
Which  in  our  two  lives  realizes  most  ? 
Much,  he  imagined  :  somewhat,  I  possess. 
He  had  the  imagination  ;  stick  to  that ! 
Let  him  say,  "  In  the  face  of  my  soul's  works 
Your  world  is  worthless  and  I  touch  it  not 
Lest  I  should  wrong  them  "  —  I'll  withdraw  my  plea 
But  does  he  say  so  ?  look  upon  his  life  ! 
Himself,  who  only  can,  gives  judgment  there. 
He  leaves  his  towers  and  gorgeous  palaces 
To  bu'ld  the  trimmest  house  in  Stratford  town  : 
Saves  m->ney,  spends  it,  owns  the  worth  of  things, 
Giulio  Romano's  pictures,  Dowland's  lute  ; 
Enjoys  a  show,  respects  the  puppets  too, 
Ami  none  more,  had  he  seen  its  entry  once, 
Than  "  Pandulph,  of  fair  Milan  cardinal. 
Whv  the,i  «hould  I  who  play  that  personage, 
The* very  Pandulph  Shakspeare's  fancy  made, 
Be  told  that  had  the  poet  chanced  to  start 
From  where  I  stand  now  (some  degree  like  r 
Being  just  the  goal  he  ran  his  race  to  reach) 
He  would  have  run  the  whole  race  hark,  forsootn. 
And  left  being  Pandulph.  to  begin  write  plays  ? 
Ah,  the  earth's  best  can  be  but  the  earth  s 
Did  Shakspeare  live,  he  could  but  sit  at  home 
And  get  himself  in  dreams  the  Vatican, 
Greek  busts,  Venetian  paintings,  Roman  walls, 
And  English  books,  none  eoual  to  his  own. 
Which  I  read;  bound  in  gold  (he  never  did). 


220 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


—  Term's  fall,  Naples'  bay,  and  Gothard's  top  — 

Eh,  friend  ?    I  could  not  fancy  one  of  these  ; 

But,  as  I  pour  this  claret,  there  they  are  : 

I've  gained  them  —  crossed  St.  Gothard  last  July 

With  ten  mules  to  the  carriage  and  a  bed 

Slung  inside  ;  is  my  hap  the  worse  for  that  ? 

We  want  the  same  things,  Shakspeare  and  myself, 

And  what  I  want,  I  have  :  he,  gifted  more, 

Could  fancy  he  too  had  it  when  he  liked, 

But  not  so  thoroughly  that,  if  fate  allowed, 

He  would  not  have  it  also  in  my  sense. 

We  play  one  game  ;  I  send  the  ball  aloft 

No  less  adroitly  that  of  fifty  strokes 

Scarce  five  go  o'er  the  wall  so  wide  and  high 

Which  sends  them  back  to  me  :  I  wish  and  get. 

He  struck  balls  higher  and  with  better  skill, 

But  at  a  poor  fence  level  with  his  head. 

And  hit  —  his  Stratford  house,  a  coat  of  arms, 

Successful  dealings  in  his  grain  and  wool : 

While  I  receive  heaven's  incense  in  my  nose, 

And  style  myself  the  cousin  of  Queen  "Bess. 

Ask  him,  if  this  life's  all,  who  wins  the  game  ? 

Believe  —  and  our  whole  argument  breaks  up. 
Enthusiasm's  the  best  thing,  I  repeat  ; 
Only,  we  can't  command  it  ;  fire  and  life 
Are  all,  dead  matter's  nothing,  we  agree  : 
And  be  it  a  mad  dream  or  God's  very  breath, 
The  fact's  the  same,  —  belief's  fire,  once  in  us, 
Makes  of  all  else  mere  stuff  to  show  itself  : 
We  penetrate  our  life  with  such  a  glow 
As  fire  lends  wood  and  iron  —  this  turns  steel, 
That  burns  to  ash  —  all's  one.  fire  proves  its  power 
For  good  or  ill,  since  men  call  Hare  success. 
But  paint  a  fire,  it  will  not  therefore  burn. 
Light  one  in  me,  I'll  find  it  fooil  enough  ! 
Why,  to  be  Luther  —  that's  a  life  to  lead, 
Incomparably  better  than  my  own. 
He  comes,  reclaims  God's  earth  for  God,  he  says. 
Sets  up  God's  rule  again  by  simple  means, 
Re-opens  a  shut  book,  and  all  is  done. 
He  flared  out  in  the  flaring  of  mankind  ; 
Such  Luther's  luck  was  :  how  shall  such  be  mine  ? 
If  he  succeeded,  nothing's  left  to  do  : 
And  if  he  did  not  altogether  —  well, 
Strauss  is  the  next  advance.    All  Strauss  should  be 
I  might  be-  also.     But  to  what  result  ? 
He  looks  upon  no  future  :  Luther  did. 
WI:at  can  I  gain  on  the  denying  side  ? 
Ice  uokes  no  conflagration.    State  the  facts, 
Read  the  text  right,  emancipate  the  world  — 
The  emancipated  world  enjoys  itself 
With  scarce  a  thank-yoti :  Blougram  told  it  first 
It  could  not  owe  a  farthing,  —  not  to  him 
More  than  Saint  Paul !  'twould  press  its  pay,  you  thinkV 
Then  add  there's  still  that  plaguy  hundredth  chance 
Strauss  may  be  wrong.    And  so  a  risk  is  run  — 
For  what  gain  ?  not  for  Luther's,  who  secured 
A  real  heaven  in  his  heart  throughout  his  life,. 
Supposing  death  a  little  altered  tilings. 


BISHOP  BLOU GRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


"  Ay,  but  since  really  you  lack  faith,"  you  cry, 
"  You  run  the  same  risk  really  on  all  sides, 
In  cool  indifference  as  bold  unbelief. 
As  well  be  Strauss  as  swing  'twixt  Paul  and  him. 
It's  not  worth  having,  such  imperfect  faith, 
No  more  available  to  do  faith's  work 
Than  unbelief  like  mine.    Whole  faith,  or  none  !  " 

Softly,  my  friend  !    I  must  dispute  that  point. 
Once  own  the  use  of  faith,  I'll  find  you  faith. 
"We're  back  on  Christian  ground.    You  call  for  faith : 
I  show  you  doubt,  to  prove  that  faith  exists. 
The  more  of  doubt,  the  stronger  faith,  I  say, 
If  faith  o'ercomes  doubt.    How  I  know  it  does  ? 
By  life  and  man's  free  will,  God  gave  for  that ! 
To  mould  life  as  we  choose  it,  shows  our  choice  : 
That's  our  one  act,  the  previous  work's  his  own. 
You  criticise  the  soil  ?  it  reared  this  tree  — 
This  broad  life  and  whatever  fruit  it  bears  ! 
What  matter  though  I  doubt  at  every  pore, 
Head-doubts,  heart-doubts,  doubts  at  my  lingers'  ends, 
Doubts  in  the  trivial  work  of  every  day, 
Doubts  at  the  very  bases  of  my  soul 
In  the  grand  moments  when  she  probes  herself  — 
If  finally  I  have  a  life  to  show, 
The  thing  I  did,  brought  out  in  evidence 
Against  the  thing  done  to  me  underground 
By  hell  and  all  its  brood,  for  aught  I  know  ? 
I  say,  whence  sprang  this  ?  shows  it  faith,  or  doubt? 
All's  doubt  in  me  ;  where's  break  of  faith  in  this? 
It  is  the  idea,  the  feeling  and  the  love, 
God  means  mankind  should  strive  for  and  show  fortli 
Whatever  be  the  process  to  that  end,  — 
And  not  historic  knowledge,  logic  sound, 
And  metaphysical  acumen,  sure  ! 

"  What  think  ye  of  Christ,"  friend  ?  when  all's  done  and  said, 
Like  you  this  Christianity,  or  not  ? 
It  may  be  false,  but  will  you  wish  it  true  ? 
Has  it  your  vote  to  be  so  if  it  can  ? 
Trust  you  an  instinct  silenced  long  ago 
That  will  break  silence  and  enjoin  you  love 
What  mortified  philosophy  is  hoarse, 
And  all  in  vain,  with  bidding  you  despise? 
If  you  desire  faith  —  then  you've  faith  enough  : 
What  else  seeks  God  —  nay,  what  else  seek  ourselves  ? 
You  form  a  notion  of  me,  we'll  suppose, 
On  hearsay  ;  it's  a  favorable  one  : 
"  But  still  (you  add),  "  there  was  no  such  good  man, 
Because  of  contradiction  in  the  facts. 
One  proves,  for  instance,  he  was  l»orn  in  Rome, 
This  Blougram  ;  yet  throughout  the  tales  of  him 
I  see  he  figures  as  an  Englishman." 
Well,  the  two  things  are  reconcilable. 
But  would  I  rather  you  discovered  that 
Subjoining—  "  Still,  what  matter  thcmgli  th         e  ;  ^ 
Blougram  concerns  me  naught,  born  here  or  there. 

Pure  faith  indeed  — you  know  not  what  you  ask  ! 
Naked  belief  in  God  the  Omnipotent, 


]_£        222 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


Omniscient,  Omnipresent,  sears  too  much 
The  sense  of  conscious  creatures  to  be  borne. 
It  were  the  seeing  him,  no  tiesh  shall  dare. 
Some  think,  Creation's  meant  to  show  him  forth  : 
I  say  it's  meant  to  hide  him  all  it  can, 
And  that's  what  all  the  blessed  evil's  for. 
Its  use  in  Time  is  to  environ  us, 
Our  breath,  our  drop  of  dew,  with  shield  enough 
Against  that  sight  till  we  can  bear  its  stress 
Under  a  vertical  sun,  the  exposed  brain 
And  lidless  eye  and  disemprisoned  heart 
Less  certainly  would  wither  up  at  once 
Than  mind,  confronted  with  the  truth  of  him. 
But  time  and  earth  case-harden  us  to  live  . 
The  feeblest  sense  is  trusted  most ;  the  child 
Feels  God  a  moment,  ichors  o'er  the  place, 
Plays  on,  and  grows  to  be  a  man  like  us 
With  me,  faith  means  perpetual  unbelief 
Kept  quiet  like  the  snake  'neath  Michael's  foot 
Who  stands  calm  just  because  he  feels  it  writhe. 
Or,  if  that's  too  ambitious,  —  here's  my  box  — 
I  need  the  excitation  of  a  pinch 
Threatening  the  torpor  of  the  inside-nose 
Nigh  on  the  imminent  sneeze  that  never  comes. 
"  Leave  it  in  peace  !  "  advise  the  simple  folk  : 
Make  it  aware  of  peace  by  itching-fits, 
Say  I  —  let  doubt  occasion  still  more  faith  ! 

You'll  say,  once  all  believed,  man,  woman,  child, 
In  that  dear  middle-age  these  noodles  praise. 
How  you'd  exult  if  I  could  put  you  back 
Six  hundred  years,  blot  out  cosmogony, 
Geology,  ethnology,  what  not 
^Greek  endings,  each  the  little  passing-bell 
That  signifies  some  faith's  about  to  die). 
And  set  you  square  with  Genesis  again  ! 
When  such  a  traveller  told  you  his  last  news, 
He  saw  the  ark  a-top  of  Ararat 
But  did  not  climb  there  since  'twas  getting  dusk 
And  robber-bands  infest  the  mountain's  foot ! 
How  should  you  feel,  I  ask,  in  such  an  age, 
How  act  ?    As  other  people  felt  and  did  . 
With  soul  more  blank  than  this  decanter's  knob, 
Believe— and  yet  lie,  kill,  rob,  fornicate 
Full  in  belief's  face,  like  the  beast  you'd  be  ! 

No,  when  the  fight  begins  within  himself, 
A  man's  worth  something.    God  stoops  o'er  his  head; 
Satan  looks  up  between  his  feet  —  both  tug  — 
He's  left,  himself,  i'  the  middle  :  the  soul  wakes 
And  grows.    Prolong  that  battle  through  his  life  ! 
Never  leave  growing  till  the  life  to  come  ! 
Here  we've  got  callous  to  the  Virgin's  winks 
That  used  to  puzzle  people  wholesomely  : 
Men  have  outgrown  the  shame  of  being  fools. 
What  are  the  laws  of  nature,  not  to  bend 
If  the  Church  bid  them  ?  — brother  Newman  asks. 
Up  with  the  Immaculate  Conception,  then  — 
On  to  the  rack  with  faith  !  — is  my  advice. 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


Will  not  that  hurry  us  upon  our  knees, 
Knocking  our  breasts,  "It  can't  he  —  yet  it  shall  ! 
Who  am  I,  the  worm,  to  argue  with  my  Pope  ? 
Low  things  confound  the  high  things  !  "  and  so  forth. 
That's  better  than  acquitting  God  with  grace, 
As  some  folks  do.    He's  tried  —  no  case  is  proved, 
Philosophy  is  lenient  —  He  may  go  ! 

You'll  say,  the  old  system's  not  so  obsolete 
But  men  believe  still  :  ay,  but  who  and  where  ? 
King  Bomba's  lazzaroni  foster  yet 
The  sacred  flame,  so  Antonelli  writes  ; 
But  even  of  these,  what  ragamuffin-saint 
Believes  God  watches  him  continually, 
As  he  believes  in  fire  that  it  will  burn, 
Or  rain  that  it  will  drench  him  ?    Break  fire's  law, 
Sin  against  rain,  although  the  penalty- 
Be  just  a  singe  or  soaking  ?    "  No,"  he  smiles  ; 
"  Those  laws  are  laws  that  can  enforce  themselves." 

The  sum  of  all  is  —yes,  my  doubt  is  great, 
My  faith's  still  greater,  then  my  faith's  enough. 
I  have  read  much,  thought  much,  experienced  much, 
Yet  would  die  rather  than  avow  my  fear 
The  Naples'  liquefaction  may  be  false, 
When  set  to  happen  by  the  palace-clock 
According  to  the  clouds  or  dinner-time. 
I  hear  you  recommend,  I  might  at  least 
Eliminate,  declassify  my  faith 
Since  I  adopt  it  ;  keeping  what  I  must 
And  leaving  what  I  can  —  such  points  as  this. 
I  won't  —  that  is,  I  can't  throw  one  away. 
Supposing  there's  no  truth  in  what  I  hold 
About  the  need  of  trial  to  man's  faith, 
Still,  when  you  bid  me  purify  the  same, 
To  such  a  process  I  discern  no  end. 
Clearing  off  one  excrescence  to  see  two, 
There's  ever  a  next  in  size,  now  grown  as  big, 
That  meets  the  knife  :  I  cut  and  cut  again  ! 
First  cut  the  Liquefaction,  what  comes  last 
But  Fichte's  clever  cut  at  God  himself  ? 
Experimentalize  on  sacred  things  ! 
I  trust  nor  hand  nor  eye  nor  heart  nor  brain 
To  stop  betimes  :  they  all  get  drunk  alike. 
The  first  step,  I  am  master  not  to  take. 

You'd  find  the  cutting-process  to  your  taste 
As  much  as  leaving  growths  of  lies  unpruned, 
Nor  see  more  danger  in  it,  —  you  retort. 
Your  taste's  worth  mine  ;  but  my  taste  proves  more  wttl 
When  we  consider  that  the  steadfast  hold 
On  the  extreme  end  of  the  chain  of  faith 
Gives  all  the  advantage,  makes  the  difference 
With  the  rough  purblind  mass  we  .seek  to  rule  : 
We  are  their  lords,  or  they  are  free  of  us, 
Just  as  we  tighten  or  relax  our  hold. 
So,  other  matters  equal,  we'll  revert 
To  the  first  problem  —  which,  if  solved  my  war 
And  thrown  into  the  balance,  turns  the  scale- 


224 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


How  we  may  lead  a  comfortable  life, 
How  suit  our  luggage  to  the  cabin's  size. 

Of  course  you  are  remarking  all  this  time 
How  narrowly  and  grossly  I  view  life, 
Respect  the  creature-comforts,  care  to  rule 
The  masses,  and  regard  complacently 
"  The  cabin,"  in  our  old  phrase.    Well,  I  do. 
I  act  for,  talk  for,  live  for  this  world  now, 
As  this  world  prizes  action,  life,  and  talk  : 
No  prejudice  to  what  next  world  may  prove, 
Whose  new  laws  and  requirements,  iny  best  pledge 
To  observe  then,  is  that  I  observe  these  now, 
Shall  do  hereafter  what  I  do  meanwhile. 
Let  us  concede  (gratuitously  though) 
Next  life  relieves  the  soul  of  body,  yields 
Pure  spiritual  enjoyment :  well,  my  friend, 
Why  lose  this  life  i'  the  mean  time,  since  its  use 
May  be  to  make  the  next  life  more  intense  ? 

Do  you  know,  I  have  often  had  a  dream 
(Work  it  up  in  your  next  month's  article) 
Of  man's  poor  spirit  in  its  progress,  still 
Losing  true  life  forever  and  a  day 
Through  ever  trying  to  be  and  ever  being  — 
In  the  evolution  of  successive  spheres  — 
Before  its  actual  sphere  and  place  of  life. 
Half  way  into  the  next,  which  having  reached, 
It  shoots  with  corresponding  foolery 
Half  way  into  the  next  still,  on  and  off  ! 
As  when  a  traveller,  bound  from  North  to  South, 
Scouts  fur  in  Russia  ;  what's  its  use  in  France  ? 
In  France  spurns  flannel ;  where's  its  need  in  Spain  ? 
In  Spain  drops  cloth,  too  cumbrous  for  Algiers  ! 
Linen  goes  next,  and  last  the  skin  itself, 
A  superfluity  at  Timbuctoo. 

When,  through  his  journey,  was  the  fool  at  ease  ? 
I'm  at  ease  now,  friend  ;  worldly  in  this  world, 
I  take  and  like  its  way  of  life  ;  I  think 
My  brothers,  who  administer  the  means, 
Live  better  for  my  comfort  —  that's  good  too  ; 
And  God,  if  he  pronounce  upon  such  life, 
Approves  my  service,  which  is  better  still. 
If  he  keep  silence,  —  why,  for  you  or  me 
Or  that  brute-beast  pulled-upin  to-day's  "  Times," 
What  odds  is't,  save  to  ourselves,  what  life  we  lead? 

You  meet  me  at  this  issue  :  you  declare,  — 
All  special-pleading  done  with,  truth  is  truth, 
And  justifies  itself  by  undreamed  ways. 
You  don't  fear  but  it's  better,  if  we  doubt, 
To  say  so,  act  up  to  our  truth  perceived 
However  feebly.    Do  then,  —  act  away  ! 
'Tis  there  I'm  on  the  watch  for  you.    How  one  acts 
Is,  both  of  us  agree,  our  chief  concern  : 
And  how  you'll  act  is  what  I  fain  would  see 
If,  like  the  candid  person  you  appear. 
You  dare  to  make  the  most  of  your  life's  scheme 
As  I  of  mine,  live  up  to  its  full  law 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM'S  APOLOGY. 


225 


Since  there's  no  higher  law  that  counterchecks. 

Put  natural  religion  to  the  test 

You've  just  demolished  the  revealed  with  — quick, 

Down  to  the  root  of  all  that  checks  your  will, 

All  prohibition  to  lie,  kill,  and  thieve, 

Or  even  to  be  an  atheistic  priest ! 

Suppose  a  pricking  to  incontinence  — 

Philosophers  deduce  you  chastity 

Or  shame,  from  just  the  fact  that  at  the  first 

Whoso  embraced  a  woman  in  the  field, 

Threw  club  down  and  forewent  his  brains  beside, 

So,  stood  a  ready  victim  in  the  reach 

Of  any  brother-savage,  club  in  hand  ; 

Hence  saw  the  use  of  going  out  of  sight 

In  wood  or  cave  to  prosecute  his  loves  : 

I  read  this  in  a  French  book  t'other  day. 

Does  law  so  analyzed  coerce  you  much  ? 

Oh,  men  spin  clouds  of  fuzz  where  matters  end, 

But  you  who  reach  where  the  first  thread  begins, 

You'll  soon  cut  that !  —  which  means  you  can,  but  won't 

Through  certain  instincts,  blind,  unreasoned-out, 

You  dare  not  set  aside,  you  can't  tell  why, 

But  there  they  are,  and  so  you  let  them  rule. 

Then,  friend,  you  seem  as  much  a  slave  as  I, 

A  liar,  conscious  coward  and  hypocrite, 

"Without  the  good  the  slave  expects  to  get, 

In  case  he  has  a  master  after  all ! 

You  own  your  instincts  ?  why,  what  else  do  I, 

Who  want,  am  made  for,  and  must  have  a  God 

Ere  I  can  be  aught,  do  aught  ?  —  no  mere  name 

Want,  but  the  true  thing  with  what  proves  its  truth, 

To  wit,  a  relation  from  that  thing  to  me, 

Touching  from  head  to  foot  —  which  touch  I  feel, 

And  with  it  .take  the  rest,  this  life  of  ours  ! 

I  live  my  life  here  :  yours  you  dare  not  live. 

—  Not  as  I  state  it,  who  (you  please  subjoin) 
Disfigure  such  a  life  and  call  it  names, 
While,  to  your  mind,  remains  another  way 
For  simple  men  :  knowledge  and  power  have  rights. 
But  ignorance  and  weakness  have  rights  too. 
There  needs  no  crucial  effort  to  find  truth 
If  here  or  there  or  anywhere  about : 
We  ought  to  turn  each  side,  try  hard  and  see, 
And  if  we  can't,  be  glad  we've  earned  at  least 
The  right,  by  one  laborious  proof  the  more, 
To  graze  in  peace  earth's  pleasant  pasturage. 
Men  are  not  angels,  neither  are  they  brutes  : 
Something  we  may  see,  all  we  cannot  see. 
What  need  of  lying?    I  say,  I  see  all. 
And  swear  to  each  detail  the  most  minute 
In  what  I  think  a  Pan's  face  —  you,  mere  cloud  : 
I  swear  I  hear  him  speak  and  see  him  wink, 
For  fear,  if  once  I  drop  the  emphasis, 
Mankind  may  doubt  there's  any  cloud  at  all. 
You  take  the  simple  life — read}'  to  see, 
Willing  to  see  (for  no  cloud's  worth  a  face)  — 
And  leaving  quiet  what  no  strength  can  move, 
And  which,  who  bids  you  move  ?  who  has  the  right? 


226 


BISHOP   BLOUGRAM'S   APOLOGY. 


I  bid  you  ;  but  you  are  God's  sheep,  not  mine  : 
"  Pastor  est  tui  JJominus."    You  find 
In  this  the  pleasant  pasture  of  our  life 
Much  you  may  eat  without  the  least  offence, 
Much  you  don't  eat  because  your  maw  objects, 
Much  you  would  eat  but  that  your  fellow-flock 
Open  great  eyes  at  you,  and  even  butt, 
And  thereupon  you  like  your  mates  so  well 
You  cannot  please  yourself,  offending  them  ; 
Though  when  they  seem  exorbitantly  sheep, 
You  weigh  your  pleasure  with  their  butts  and  bleats 
And  strike  the  balance.    Sometimes  certain  fears 
Restrain  you,  real  checks  since  you  find  them  so  ; 
Sometimes  you  please  yourself  and  nothing  checks  : 
And  thus  you  graze  through  life  with  not  one  lie, 
And  like  it  best. 

But  do  you,  in  truth's  name  ? 
If  so,  you  beat  —  which  means  you  are  not  I  — 
Who  needs  must  make  earth  mine  and  feed  my  fill 
Not  simply  unbutted  at,  unbickered  with, 
But  motioned  to  the  velvet  of  the  sward 
By  those  obsequious  wethers'  very  selves. 
Look  at  me,  sir  ;  my  age  is  double  yours  : 
At  yours,  I  knew  beforehand,  so  enjoyed, 
What  now  I  should  be  —  as,  permit  the  word, 
I  pretty  well  imagine  your  whole  range 
And  stretch  of  tether  twenty  years  to  come. 
We  have  both  minds  and  bodies  ranch  alike  : 
In  truth's  name,  don't  you  want  my  bishopric, 
My  daily  bread,  my  influence  and  my  state  ? 
You're  young,  I'm  old,  you  must  be  old  one  day  ; 
Will  you  find  then,  as  I  do  hour  by  hour, 
Women  their  lovers  kneel  to,  who  cut  curls 
From  your  fat  lap-dog's  ear  to  grace  a  brooch  — 
Dukes,  who  petition  just  to  kiss  your  ring  — 
With  much  beside  you  know  or  may  conceive  ? 
Suppose  we  die  to-night :  well,  here  am  I, 
Such  were  my  gains,  life  bore  this  fruit  to  me, 
While  writing  all  the  same  my  articles 
On  music,  poetry,  the  fictile  vase 
Found  at  Albano,  chess,  Anacreon's, Greek. 
But  you  — the  highest  honor  in  your  life, 
The  thing  you'll  crown  yourself  with,  all  your  days, 
Is  —  dining  here  and  drinking  this  last  glass 
I  pour  you  out  in  sight  of  amity 
Before  we  part  forever.    Of  your  power 
And  social  influence,  worldly  worth  in  short, 
Judge  what's  my  estimation  by  the  fact  — 
I  do  not  condescend  to  enjoin,  beseech, 
Hint  secrecy  on  one  of  all  these  words  ! 
You're  shrewd  and  know  that  should  you  publish  one 
The  world  would  brand  the  lie  —  my  enemies  first, 
Who'd  sneer  —  "  the  bishop's  an  arch-hypocrite 
And  knave  perhaps,  but  not  so  frank  a  fool." 
Whereas  I  should  not  dare  for  both  my  ears 
Breathe  one  such  syllable,  smile  one  such  smile, 
Before  the  chaplain  who  reflects  myself  — 
My  shade's  so  much  more  potent  than  your  flesh. 


BISHOP  BLOUGRAM 'S  APOLOGY. 


227 


What's  your  reward,  self-abnegating  friend? 

Stood  you  confessed  of  those  exceptional 

And  privileged  great  natures  that  dwarf  mine  — 

A  zealot  with  a  mad  ideal  in  reach, 

A  poet  just  about  to  print  his  ode, 

A  statesman  with  a  scheme  to  stop  this  war, 

An  artist  whose  religion  is  his  art  — 

I  should  have  nothing  to  object :  such  men 

Carry  the  fire,  all  things  grow  warm  to  them, 

Their  drugget's  worth  my  purple,  they  beat  me. 

But  you  —  you're  just  as  little  those  as  I  — 

You,  Gigadibs,  who,  thirty  years  of  age, 

Write  statedly  for  Blackwobd's  Magazine, 

Believe  you  see' two  points  in  Hamlet's  soul 

Unseized  by  the  Germans  yet  —  which  view  you'll  print 

Meantime  the  best  you  have  to  show  being  still 

That  lively  lightsome  article  we  took 

Almost  for  the  true  Dickens,  —  what's  its  name  ? 

"The  Slum  and  Cellar,  or  Whitechapel  life 

Limned  after  dark  !  "  it  made  me  laugh,  I  know, 

And  pleased  a  month,  and  brought  you  in  ten  pounds. 

—  Success  I  recognize  and  compliment, 

And  therefore  give  you,  if  you  choose,  three  words 

(Tlie  card  and  pencil-scratch  is  quite  enough) 

Which  whether  here,  in  Dublin  or  New  York, 

Will  get  you,  prompt  as  at  ray  eyebrow's  wink, 

Such  terms  as  never  you  aspired  to  get 

In  all  our  own  reviews  and  some  not  ours. 

Go  write  your  lively  sketches  !  be  the  first 

"  Blougram,  or  the  Eccentric  Confidence  "  - 

Or  better  simply  say,  "  The  Outward-bound." 

Why,  men  as  soon  would  throw  it  in  my  teeth 

As  copy  and  quote  the  infamy  chalked  broad 

About  me  on  the  church-door  opposite. 

You  will  not  wait  for  that  experience  though, 

I  fancy,  howsoever  you  decide, 

To  discontinue  —  not  detesting,  not 

Defaming,  but  at  least  —  despising  me  ! 


Over  his  wine  so  smiled  and  talked  his  hour 
Sylvester  Blougram,  styled  in  pnrtibns 
Episcopus,  nee  non  —  (the  deuce  knows  what 
It's  changed  to  by  our  novel  hierarchy) 
With  Gigadibs  the  literary  man, 

Who  played  with  spoons,  explored  his  plate's  design, 
And  ranged  the  olive-stones  about  its  edge, 
While  the  great  bishop  rolled  him  out  a  mind 
Long  rumpled,  till  creased  consciousness  lay  smooth. 

For  Blougram,  he  believed,  say,  half  he  spoke. 
The  other  portion,  as  he  shaped  it  thus 
For  argumentatory  purposes. 
He  felt  his  foe  was  foolish  to  dispute. 
Some  arbitrary  accidental  thoughts 
That  crossed  his  mind,  amusing  because  new, 
He  chose  to  represent  as  fixtures  there, 
Invariable  convictions  (such  they  seemed 


C        228 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM." 


Beside  his  interlocutor's  loose  cards 

Flung  daily  down,  and  not  the  same  way  twice) 

While  certain  hell-deep  instincts,  man's  weak  tongue 

Is  never  bold  to  utter  in  their  truth 

Because  styled  hell-deep  ('tis  an  old  mistake 

To  place  hell  at  the  bottom  of  the  earth) 

He  ignored  these,  — not  having  in  readiness 

Their  nomenclature  and  philosophy  : 

He  said  true  things,  but  called  them  by  wrong  names. 

"  On  the  whole,"  he  thought,  "  I  justify  myself 

On  every  point  where  cavillers  like  this 

Oppugn  my  life  :  he  tries  one  kind  of  fence, 

I  close,  he's  worsted,  that's  enough  for  him. 

He's  on  the  ground  :  if  ground  should  break  away 

I  take  my  stand  on,  there's  a  firmer  yet 

Beneath  it,  both  of  us  may  sink  and  reach. 

His  ground  was  over  mine  and  broke  the  first : 

So,  let  him  sit  with  me  this  many  a  year  !  " 

He  did  not  sit  five  minutes.    Just  a  week 
Sufficed  his  sudden  healthy  vehemence. 
Something  had  struck  him  in  the  "  Outward-bound  " 
Another  way  than  Blougram's  purpose  was  : 
And  having  bought,  not  cabin-furniture 
But  settler's  implements  (enough  for  three) 
And  started  for  Australia — there,  I  hope, 
By  this  time  he  has  tested  his  first  plough, 
And  studied  his  last  chapter  of  Saint  John. 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE   MEDIUM." 

"Now,  don't,  sir  !    Don't  expose  me  !    Just  this  once  ! 

This  was  the  first  and  only  time,  I'll  swear,  — 

Look  at  me,  —  see,  I  kneel,  —  the  only  time, 

I  swear,  I  ever  cheated,  —  yes,  by  the  soul 

Of  Her  who  hears  —  (your  sainted  mother,  sir  !) 

All,  except  this  last  accident,  was  truth  — 

This  little  kind  of  slip  !  — and  even  this, 

It  was  your  own  wine,  sir,  the  good  champagne 

(I  took  it  for  Catawba,  you're  so  kind), 

Which  put  the  folly  in  my  head  ! 

"Get  up?" 

You  still  inflict  on  me  that  terrible  face  ? 
You  show  no  mercy  ?  —    Not  for  Her  dear  sake, 
The  sainted  spirit's,  whose  soft  breath  even  now 
Blows  on  my  cheek  —  (don't  you  feel  something,  sir  ?) 
You'll  tell? 

Go  tell,  then  !    Who  the  Devil  cares 
What  such  a  rowdy  chooses  to  ... 

Aie  —  aie  —  aie  ! 

Please,  sir  !  your  thumbs  are  through  my  windpipe,  sir  1 
Ch  — ch! 


Mr.  Sludge,  "The  Medium."  —  Page  228. 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM."  229 


Well,  sir,  I  hope  you've  done  it  now  ! 

0  Lord  !    I  little  thought,  sir,  yesterday, 
When  your  departed  mother  spoke  those  words 

Of  peace  through  me,  and  moved  you,  sir,  so  much, 

You  gave  me  —  (very  kind  it  was  of  you) 

These  shirt-studs  —  (better  take  them  back  again, 

Please,  sir)  —  yes,  little  did  I  think  so  soon 

A  trifle  of  trick,  all  through  a  glass  too  much 

Of  his  own  champagne,  would  change  my  best  of  friends 

Into  an  angry  gentleman  ! 

Though,  'twas  wrong. 

1  don't  contest  the  point ;  your  anger's  just : 
Whatever  put  such  folly  in  my  head, 

I  know  'twas  wicked  of  me.    There's  a  thick 

Dusk  undeveloped  spirit  (I've  observed) 

Owes  me  a  grudge  —  a  negro's,  I  should  say, 

Or  else  an  Irish  emigrant's  ;  yourself 

Explained  the  case  so  well  last  Sunday,  sir, 

"When  we  had  summoned  Franklin  to  clear  up 

A  point  about  those  shares  i'  the  telegraph  : 

Ay,  and  he  swore  ...  or  might  it  be  Tom  Paine  ?  .  .  . 

Thumping  the  table  close  by  where  I  crouched, 

He'd  do  me  soon  a  mischief  :  that's  come  true  ! 

Why,  now  your  face  clears  !    I  was  sure  it  would  1 

Then,  this  one  time  .  .  .  don't  take  your  hand  away, 

Through  yours  I  surely  kiss  your  mother's  hand  .  .  . 

You'll  promise  to  forgive  me  ? —  or,  at  least, 

Tell  nobody  of  this  ?    Consider,  sir  ! 

What  harm  can  mercy  do  ?    Would  but  the  shade 

Of  the  venerable  dead-one  just  vouchsafe 

A  rap  or  tip  !    What  bit  of  paper's  here  ? 

Suppose  we  take  a  pencil,  let  her  write, 

Make  the  least  sign,  she  urges  on  her  child 

Forgiveness  ?    There  now  !    Eh  ?    Oh  !    'Twas  your  foot, 

And  not  a  natural  creak,  sir? 

Answer,  then ! 

Once,  twice,  thrice  .  .  .  see,  I'm  waiting  to  say  "  thrice  !  " 
All  to  no  use  ?    No  sort  of  hope  for  me  ? 
It's  all  to  post  to  Greeley's  newspaper  ? 

What  ?    If  I  told  you  all  about  the  tricks  » 

Upon  my  soul !  —  the  whole  truth,  and  naught  else, 

And  how  there's  been  some  falsehood  —  for  your  part, 

Will  you  engage  to  pay  my  passage  out, 

And  hold  your  tongue  until  I'm  safe  on  board  ? 

England's  the  place,  not  Boston  — no  offence  ! 

I  see  what  makes  you  hesitate  :  don't  fear  ! 

I  mean  to  change  my  trade  and  cheat  no  more, 

Yes,  this  time  really  it's  upon  my  soul ! 

Be  my  salvation  !  — under  heaven,  of  course. 

I'll  tell  some  queer  things.    Sixty  Vs  must  da 

A  trifle,  though,  to  start  with  !    We'll  refer 

The  question  to  this  table  ? 

How  you're  changed ! 

Then  split  the  difference  ;  thirty  more,  we'll  say. 
Ay,  but  you  leave  my  presents  I    Else  I'll  swear 


230 


MS.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM." 


'Tvvas  all  through  those  :  you  wanted  yours  again, 

So,  picked  a  quarrel  with  rue,  to  get  them  back  ! 

Tread  on  a  worm,  it  turns,  sir  !    If  I  turn, 

Your  fault !     "Tis  you'll  have  forced  roe  !    Who's  obliged 

To  give  up  life  yet  try  no  self-defence  ? 

At  all  events,  I'll  run  the  risk.    Eh  ? 

Done ! 

May  I  sit,  sir  ?    This  dear  old  table,  now  ! 
Please,  sir,  a  parting  egg-nogg  and  cigar  ! 
I've  been  so  happy  with  you  !    Nice  stuffed  chairs, 
And  sympathetic  sideboards  ;  what  an  end 
To  all  the  instructive  evenings  !    (It's  alight.) 
Well,  nothing  lasts,  as  Bacon  came  and  said. 
Here  goes,  —  but  keep  your  temper,  or  I'll  scream  ! 

Fol-lol-the-rido-liddle-iddle-ol! 

You  see,  sir,  it's  your  own  fault  more  than  mine  ; 

It's  all  your  fault,  you  curious  gentlefolk  ! 

You're  prigs,  —  excuse  me,  —  like  to  look  so  spry, 

So  clever,  while  you  cling  by  half  a  claw 

To  the  perch  whereon  you  puff  yourselves  at  roost, 

Such  piece  of  self-conceit  as  serves  for  perch 

Because  you  chose  it,  so  it  must  be  safe. 

Oh,  otherwise  you're  sharp  enough  !    You  spy 

Who  slips,  who  slides,  who  holds  by  help  of  wing, 

Wanting  real  foothold,  —  who  can't  keep  upright 

On  the  other  perch,  your  neighbor  chose,  not  you  : 

There's  no  outwitting  you  respecting  him  ! 

For  instance,  men  love  money  —  that,  you  know  — 

And  what  men  do  to  gain  it :  well,  suppose 

A  poor  lad,  say  a  help's  son  in  your  house, 

Listening  at  keyholes,  hears  the  company 

Talk  grand  of  dollars,  V-notes,  and  so  forth, 

How  hard  they  are  to  get,  how  good  to  hold, 

How  much  they  buy,  —  if,  suddenly,  in  pops  he  — 

"  Pve  got  a  V-note  !  "  —  what  do  you  say  to  him  ? 

What's  your  first  word  which  follows  your  last  kick? 

"  Where  did  you  steal  it,  rascal  ?  "    That's  because 

He  finds  you,  fain  would  fool  you,  off  your  perch, 

Not  on  the  special  piece  of  nonsense,  sir, 

Elected  your  parade-ground  :  let  him  try 

Lies  to  the  end  of  the  list,  —  "  He  picked  it  up, 

His  cousin  died  and  left  it  him  by  will, 

The  President  flung  it  to  him,  riding  by, 

An  actress  trucked  it  for  a  curl  of  his  hair, 

He  dreamed  of  luck  and  found  his  shoe  enriched, 

He  dug  up  clay,  and  out  of  clay  made  gold  "  — 

How  would  you  treat  such  possibilities  ? 

Would  not  you,  prompt,  investigate  the  case 

With  cow-liide  ?    "  Lies,  lies,  lies,"  you'd  shout :  and  why  ? 

Which  of  the  stories  might  not  prove  mere  truth  ? 

This  last,  perhaps,  that  clay  was  turned  to  coin  ! 

Let's  see,  now,  give  him  me  to  speak  for  him  ! 

How  many  of  your  rare  philosophers, 

In  plaguy  books  I've  had  to  dip  into, 

Believed  gold  could  be  made  thus,  saw  it  made, 

And  made  it?    Oh,  with  such  philosophers 

You're  on  your  best  behavior  !    While  the  iad  — 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "  THE  MEDIUM: 


231 


With  him,  in  a  trice,  you  settle  likelihoods, 
Nor  doubt  a  moment  how  lie  got  his  prize  : 
In  his  case,  you  hear,  judge,  and  execute, 
All  in  a  breath  :  so  would  most  men  of  sense. 

But  let  the  same  lad  hear  you  talk  as  grand 

At  the  same  keyhole,  you  and  company, 

Of  signs  and  wonders,  the  invisible  world  ; 

How  wisdom  scouts  our  vulgar  unbelief 

More  than  our  vulgarest  credulity  ; 

How  good  men  have  desired  to  see  a  ghost, 

What  Johnson  used  to  say,  what  Wesley  did, 

Mother  Goose  thought,  and  nddle-diddle-dee  :  — 

If  he  then  break  in  with,  "  Sir,  /  saw  a  ghost !  " 

Ah,  the  ways  change  !    He  finds  you  perched  and  prim  ; 

It's  a  conceit  of  yours  that  ghosts  may  be  : 

There's  no  talk  now  of  cow-hide.     "  Tell  it  out ! 

Don't  fear  us  !    Take  your  time  and  recollect ! 

Sit  down  first  ;  try  a  glass  of  wine,  my  boy  ! 

And,  David,  (is  not  that  your  Christian  name  ?) 

Of  all  things,  should  this  happen  twice,  —  it  may, — 

Be  sure,  while  fresh  in  mind,  you  let  us  know  !  " 

Does  the  boy  blunder,  blurt  out  this,  blab  that, 

Break  down  in  the  other,  as  beginners  will  ? 

All's  candor,  all's  consitlerateness,  —  "  No  haste  ! 

Pause  and  collect  yourself  !    We  understand  ! 

That's  the  bad  memory,  or  the  natural  shock, 

Or  the  unexplained  phenomena  !" 

Egad, 

The  boy  takes  heart  of  grace  ;  finds,  never  fear, 
The  readiest  way  to  ope  your  own  heart  wide, 
Show  —  what  I  call  your  peacock-perch,  pet  post 
To  strut,  and  spread  the  tail,  and  squawk  upon  ! 
"  Just  as  you  thought,  much  as  you  might  expect ! 
There  be  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio,"  .  . 
And  so  on.     Shall  not  David  take  the  hint, 
Grow  bolder,  stroke  you  down  at  quickened  rate? 
If  he  ruffle  a  feather,  it's  "  Gently,  patiently  I 
Manifestations  are  so  weak  at  first ! 
Doubting,  moreover,  kills  them,  cuts  all  short, 
Cures  with  a  vengeance  !  " 

There,  sir,  that's  your  style  ! 

You  and  your  boy  —  such  pains  bestowed  on  him, 
Or  any  headpiece  of  the  average  worth, 
To  teach,  say,  Greek,  would  perfect  him  apace, 
Make  him  a  Person  ("  Person  ?  "  thank  you,  sir  !) 
Much  more,  proficient  in  the  art  of  lies. 
You  never  leave  the  lesson  !     Fire  alight, 
Catch  you  permitting  it  to  die  !    You've  friends  ; 
There's  no  withholding  knowledge,  —  least  from  those 
Apt  to  look  elsewhere  for  their  soul's  supply  : 
Why  should  not  you  parade  your  lawful  prize  ? 
Who  finds  a  picture,  digs  a  medal  up, 
Hits  on  a  first  edition,  —  he  henceforth 
Gives  it  his  name,  grows  notable  :  how  much  more 
Who  ferrets  put  a  "  medium  "  ?    "  David's  yours, 
You  highly  favored  man  ?    Then,  pity  souls 


232 


MR.   SLUDGE,    ''THE  MEDIUM." 


Less  privileged  !    Allow  us  share  your  luck  !  " 
So,  David  holds  the  circle,  rules  the  roast, 
Narrates  the  vision,  peeps  in  the  glass  ball, 
Sets-to  the  spirit-writing,  hears  the  raps, 
As  the  case  may  be. 

Now  mark  !    To  be  precise,  — 
Though  I  say,  "  lies  "  all  these,  at  this  first  stage, 
'Tis  just  for  science'  sake  :  I  call  such  grubs 
By  the  name  of  what  they'll  turn  to,  dragonflies. 
Strictly,  it's  what  good  people  style  untruth  ; 
But  yet,  so  far,  not  quite  the  full-grown  thing  : 
It's  fancying,  fable-making,  nonsense-work,  — 
What  never  meant  to  be  so  very  bad,  — 
The  knack  of  story-telling,  brightening  up 
Each  dull  old  bit  of  fact  that  drops  its  shine. 
One  does  see  somewhat  when  one  shuts  one's  eyes, 
If  only  spots  and  streaks  ;  tables  do  tip 
In  the  oddest  way  of  themselves  :  and  pens,  good  Lord, 
Who  knows  if  you  drive  them  or  they  drive  you  ? 
'Tis  but  a  foot  in  the  water  and  out  again  ; 
Not  that  duck-under  which  decides  your  dive. 
Note  this,  for  it's  important :  listen  why. 

I'll  prove,  you  push  on  David  till  he  dives 

And  ends  the  shivering.    Here's  your  circle,  now  : 

Two-thirds  of  them,  with  heads  like  you  their  host, 

Turn  up  their  eyes,  and  cry,  as  you  expect, 

"  Lord,  who'd  have  thought  it !  "     But  there's  always  one 

Looks  wise,  compassionately  smiles,  submits 

"  Of  your  veracity  no  kind  of  doubt, 

But  —  do  you  feel  so  certain  of  that  boy's? 

Really,  I  wonder  !  I  confess  myself 

More  chary  of  my  faith  !  "    That's  galling,  sir  ! 

What !  he  the  investigator,  he  the  sage, 

When  all's  done  ?    Then,  you  just  have  shut  your  eyes, 

Opened  your  mouth,  and  gulped  down  David  whole, 

You  !    Terrible  were  such  catastrophe  ! 

So,  evidence  is  redoubled,  doubled  again, 

And  doubled  besides  ;  once  more,  "  He  heard,  we  heard, 

You  and  they  heard,  your  mother  and  your  wife, 

Your  children  and  the  stranger  in  your  gates  : 

Did  they,  or  did  they  not  ?  "    So  much  for  him, 

The  black  sheep,  guest  without  the  wedding-garb, 

And  doubting  Thomas  !    Now's  your  turn  to  crow  : 

"  He's  kind  to  think  you  such  a  fool  :  Sludge  cheats  ? 

Leave  you  alone  to  take  precautions  !  " 

Straight 

The  rest  join  chorus.    Thomas  stands  abashed, 
Sips  silent  some  such  beverage  as  this, 
Considers  if  it  be  harder,  shutting  eyes 
And  gulping  David  in  good  fellowship, 
Than  going  elsewhere,  getting,  in  exchange, 
With  no  egg-nogg  to  lubricate  the  food, 
Some  just  as  tough  a  morsel.    Over  the  way, 
Holds  Captain  Sparks  his  court :  is  it  better  there  ? 
Have  not  you  hunting-stories,  scalping-scenes, 
And  Mexican  War  exploits  to  swallow  plump 
If  you'd  be  free  o'  the  stove-side,  rocking-chair, 
And  trio  of  affable  daughters  ? 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM."  233 


Doubt  succumbs ! 

Victory  !    All  your  circle's  yours  again  ! 
Out  of  the  clubbing  of  submissive  wits, 
David's  performance  rounds,  each  chink  gets  patched, 
Every  protrusion  of  a  point's  filed  fine, 
All's  fit  to  set  a-rolling  round  the  world, 
And  then  return  to  David  finally, 
Lies  seven-feet  thick  about  his  first  half-inch. 
Here's  a  choice  birth  o'  the  supernatural, 
Poor  David's  pledged  to  !    You've  employed  no  tool 
That  laws  exclaim  at,  save  the  Devil's  own, 
Yet  screwed  him  into  henceforth  gulling  you 
To  the  top  o'  your  bent,  —  all  out  of  one  half-lie  1 

You  hold,  if  there's  one  half  or  a  hundredth  part 
Of  a  lie,  that's  his  fault,  —  his  be  the  penalty  ! 
I  dare  say  !    You'd  prove  firmer  in  his  place  ? 
You'd  find  the  courage,  —  that  first  Hurry  over, 
That  mild  bit  of  romancing-work  at  end,  — 
To  interpose  with  "  It  gets  serious,  this  ; 
Must  stop  here.     Sir,  I  saw  no  ghost  at  all. 
Inform  your  friends  I  made  .  .  .  well,  fools  of 
And  found  you  ready  made.    I've  lived  in  clover 
These  three  weeks  :  take  it  out  in  kicks  of  me  !  " 
I  doubt  it.    Ask  your  conscience  !    Let  me  know, 
Twelve  months  hence,  with  how  few  embellishments 
You've  told  almighty  Boston  of  this  passage 
Of  arras  between  us,  your  first  taste  o'  the  foil 
From  Sludge  who  could  not  fence,  sir  !  Sludge,  your  boy  I 
I  lied,  sir,  —  there  !    I  got  up  from  my  gorge 
On  offal  in  the  gutter,  and  preferred 
Your  canvas-backs  :  I  took  their  carver's  size, 
Measured  his  modicum  of  intelligence, 
Tickled  him  on  the  cockles  of  his  heart 
"With  a  raven  feather,  and  next  week  found  myself 
Sweet  and  clean,  dining  daintily,  dizened  smart, 
Set  on  a  stool  buttressed  by  ladies'  knees, 
Every  soft  smiler  calling  me  her  pet, 
Encouraging  my  story  to  uncoil 
And  creep  out  from  its  hole,  inch  after  inch, 
"  How  last  night,  I  no  sooner  snug  in  bed, 
Tucked  up,  just  as  they  left  me,  —  than  came  raps  ! 
While  a  light  whisked  "  .  .  .  "  Shaped  somewhat  like  <\  star  ?  "  -- 
"  Well,  like  some  sort  of  stars,  ma'am,"  —  "So  we  thought ! 
And  any  voice  ?    Not  yet  ?    Try  hard  next  time, 
If  you  can't  hear  a  voice  ;  we  think  you  may  : 
At  least,  the  Pennsylvanian  '  mediums  '  did." 
Oh,  next  time  comes  the  voice  !    "  Just  as  we  hoped  ! ' 
Are  not  the  hopers  proud  now,  pleased,  profuse 
O'  the  natural  acknowledgment  ? 

Of  course ! 

So,  off  we  push,  illy-oh-yo,  trim  the  boat, 
On  we  sweep  with  a  cataract  ahead, 
We're  midway  to  the  Horse-shoe  :  stop,  who  can. 
The  dance  of  bubbles  gay  about  our  prow  ! 
Experiences  become  worth  waiting  for, 
Spirits  now  speak  up,  tell  their  inmost  mind, 
And  compliment  the  "medium"  properly, 


\ 


234 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM: 


Concern  themselves  about  his  Sunday  coat, 

See  rings  on  his  hand  with  pleasure.    Ask  yourself 

How  you'd  receive  a  course  of  treats  like  these  ! 

Why,  take  the  quietest  hack  and  stall  him  up, 

Cram  him  with  corn  a  month,  then  out  with  him 

Among  his  mates  on  a  bright  April  morn, 

"With  the  turf  to  tread  ;  see  if  you  find  or  no 

A  caper  in  him,  if  he  bucks  or  bolts  ! 

Much  more  a  youth  whose  fancies  sprout,  a">  rank 

As  toadstool-clump  from  melon-bed.     'Tis  soon, 

"  Sirrah,  you  spirit,  come,  go,  feteh  and  carry, 

Read,  write,  rap,  rub-a-dub,  and  hang  yourself  !  " 

I'm  spared  all  further  trouble  ;  all's  arranged  ; 

Your  circle  does  my  business  ;  I  may  rave 

Like  an  epileptic  dervish  in  the  books, 

Foam,  fling  myself  flat,  rend  my  clothes  to  shreds  ; 

No  matter  :  lovers,  friends,  and  countrymen 

Will  lay  down  spiritual  laws,  read  wrong  things  right 

By  the  rule  o'  reverse.     If  Francis  Verulam 

Styles  himself  Bacon,  spells  the  name  beside 

With  a  y  and  a  k,  says  he  drew  breath  in  York, 

Gave  up  the  ghost  in  Wales  when  Cromwell  reigned 

(As,  sir,  we  somewhat  fear  he  was  apt  to  say, 

Before  I  found  the  useful  book  that  knows)", 

Why,  what  harm's  done  ?    The  circle  smiles  apace, 

"  It  was  not  Bacon,  after  all,  do  you  see  ! 

We  understand  ;  the  trick's  but  natural ; 

Such  spirits'  individuality 

Is  hard  to  put  in  evidence  :  they  incline 

To  gibe  and  jeer,  these  undeveloped  sorts. 

You  see,  their  world's  much  like  a  jail  broke  loose, 

While  this  of  ours  remains  shut,  bolted,  barred, 

With  a  single  window  to  it.    Sludge,  our  friend, 

Serves  as  this  window,  whether  thin  or  thick, 

Or  stained  or  stainless  ;  he's  the  medium-pane 

Through  which,  to  see  us  and  be  seen,  they  peep  : 

They  crowd  each  other,  hustle  for  a  chance, 

Tread  on  their  neighbor's  kibes,  play  tricks  enough  ! 

Does  Bacon,  tired  of  waiting,  swerve  aside  ? 

Up  in  his  place  jumps  Barnum  — '  I'm  your  man, 

I'll  answer  you  for  Bacon  ! '    Try  once'more  !  " 

Or  else  it's  —  "  What's  a  '  medium  ?  '    He's  a  means, 

Good,  bad,  indifferent,  still  the  only  means 

Spirits  can  speak  by  ;  he  may  misconceive, 

Stutter,  and  stammer,  —  he's  their  Sludge  and  drudge. 

Take  him  or  leave  him  ;  they  must  hold  their  peace, 

Or  else,  put  up  with  having  knowledge  strained 

To  half-expression  through  his  ignorance. 

Suppose,  the  spirit  Beethoven  wants  to  shed 

New  music  he's  brimful  of  ;  why,  he  turns 

The  handle  of  this  organ,  grinds  with  Sludge, 

And  what  he  poured  in  at  the  mouth  o'  the  mill 

As  a  Thirty-third  Sonata,  (fancy  now  !) 

Comes  from  the  hopper  as  brand-new  Sludge,  naught  else. 

The  Shakers'  Hymn  in  G,  with  a  natural  F, 

Or  the  '  Stars  and  Stripes '  set  to  consecutive  fourths." 

Sir,  where's  the  scrape  you  did  not  help  me  through, 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM.' 


235 


You  that  are  wise  ?    And  for  the  fools,  the  folk 

Who  came  to  see,  —  the  guests,  (observe  that  word  !) 

Pray  do  you  find  guests  criticise  your  wine, 

Your  furniture,  your  grammar,  or  your  nose  ? 

Then,  why  your  "  medium  "  ?    What's  the  difference  ? 

Prove  your  Madeira  red-ink  and  gamhoge,  — 

Your  Sludge,  a  cheat  —  then  somebody's  a  goose 

For  vaunting  both  as  genuine.     "  Guests  !  "    Don't  fear  ! 

They'll  make  a  wry  face,  not  too  much  of  that, 

And  leave  you  in  your  glory. 

"  No,  sometimes 

They  doubt  and  say  as  much  !  "    Ay,  doubt  they  do  ! 
And  what's  the  consequence  ?     "  Of  course  they  doubt " 
(You  triumph)  "  that  explains  the  hitch  at  once  ! 
Doubt  posed  our  '  medium,'  puddled  his  pure  mind  ; 
He  gave  them  back  their  rubbish  :  pitch  chaff  in, 
Could  flour  come  out  o'  the  honest  mill  ?  "    So,  prompt 
Applaud  the  faithful :  cases  flock  in  point, 
"  How,  when  a  mocker  willed  a  '  medium  '  once 
Should  name  a  spirit  James  whose  name  was  George, 
'  James  '  cried  the  '  medium,'  —  'twas  the  test  of  truth  !  " 
In  short,  a  hit  proves  much,  a  miss  proves  more. 
Does  this  convince  ?    The  better  :  does  it  fail  ? 
Time  for  the  double-shotted  broadside,  then  — 
The  grand  means,  last  resource.    Look  black  and  big ! 
"  You  style  us  idiots,  therefore  —  why  stop  short? 
Accomplices  in  rascality  :  this  we  hear 
In  our  own  house,  from  our  invited  guest 
Found  brave  enough  to  outrage  a  poor  boy 
Exposed  by  our  good  faith  !    Have  you  been  heard  ? 
Now,  then,  hear  us  ;  one  man's  not  quite  worth  twelve. 
You  see  a  cheat  ?    Here's  some  twelve  see  an  ass  : 
Excuse  me  if  I  calculate  :  good  day  !  " 
Out  slinks  the  sceptic,  all  the  laughs  explode, 
Sludge  waves  his  hat  in  triumph  ! 

Or  —  he  don't. 

There's  something  in  real  truth  (explain  who  can  !) 
One  casts  a  wistful  eye  at,  like  the  horse 
Who  mopes  beneath  stuffed  hay-racks  and  won't  munch 
Because-  he  spies  a  corn-bag  :  hang  that  truth, 
It  spoils  all  dainties  proffered  in  its  place  ! 
I've  felt  at  times  when,  cockered,  cossetted, 
And  coddled  by  the  aforesaid  company, 
Bidden  enjoy  their  bullying — never  fear, 
But  o'er  their  shoulders  spit  at  the  flying  man,  — 
I've  felt  a  child  ;  only,  a  fractious  child 
That,  dandled  soft  by  nurse,  aunt,  grandmother, 
Who  keep  him  from  the  kennel,  sun,  and  wind, 
Good  fun  and  wholesome  mud,  —  enjoined  be  sweet, 
And  comely  and  superior,  —  eyes  askance 
The  ragged  sons  o'  the,  gutter  at  their  game, 
Fain  would  be  down  with  them  i'  the  thick  o'  the  filth. 
Making  dirt-pies,  laughing  free,  speaking  plain, 
And  calling  granny  the  gray  old  cat  she  is. 
I've  felt  a  spite,  I  say,  at  you,  at  them, 
Huggings  and  humbug  —  gnashed  my  teeth  to  mark 
A  decent  dog  pass  !    It's  too  bad,  I  say, 
Ruining  a  soul  so  ! 


236 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM." 


But  what's  "  so,"  what's  fixed, 

"Where  may  one  stop  ?    Nowhere  !    The  cheating's  nursed 
Out  of  the  lying,  softly  and  surely  spun 
To  just  your  length,  sir  !    I'd  stop  soon  enough  : 
But  you're  for  progress.     "  All  old,  nothing  new  ? 
Only  the  usual  talking  through  the  mouth, 
Or  writing  by  the  hand  ?    I  own,  I  thought 
This  would  develop,  grow  demonstrable. 
Make  doubt  absurd,  give  figures  we  might  see, 
Flowers  we  might  touch.    There's  no  one  doubts  you,  Sludge  ! 
You  dream  the  dreams,  you  see  the  spiritual  sights, 
The  speeches  come  in  yo'ur  head,  beyond  dispute. 
Still,  for  the  sceptics'  sake,  to  stop  all  mouths, 
"We  want  some  outward  manifestation  !  —  well, 
The  Pennsylvanians  gained  such  ;  why  not  Sludge  ? 
He  may  improve  with  time  !  " 

Ay,  that  he  may  ! 

He  sees  his  lot :  there's  no  avoiding  fate. 
'Tis  a  trifle  at  first.     "  Eh,  David  ?    Did  you  hear  ? 
You  jogged  the  table,  your  foot  caused  the  squeak, 
This  time  you're  .  .  .  joking,  are  you  not,  my  boy  ?  "  — 
"  N-n-no  !  "  —  and  I'm  done  for,  bought  and  sold  henceforth. 
The  old  good  easy  jog-trot  way,  the  ...  eh  ? 
The  .  .  .  not  so  very  false,  as  falsehood  goes, 
The  spinning  out  and  drawing  fine,  you  know, — 
Really  mere  novel-writing  of  a  sort, 
Acting,  or  improvising,  make-believe, 
Surely  not  downright  cheatery,  —  any  how, 
'Tis  done  with  and  my  lot  cast ;  Cheat's  my  name  : 
The  fatal  dash  of  brandy  in  your  tea 
Has  settled  how  you'  11  have  the  Souchong  smack  : 
The  caddy  gives  way  to  the  dram-bottle. 

Then,  it's  so  cruel  easy  !    Oh,  those  tricks 

That  can't  be  tricks,  those  feats  by  sleight  of  hand, 

Clearly  no  common  conjurer's  !  —  no,  indeed  ! 

A  conjurer  ?    Choose  me  any  craft  i'  the  world 

A  man  puts  hand  to  ;  and  with  six  months'  pains, 

I'll  play  you  twenty  tricks  miraculous 

To  people  untaught  the  trade.    Have  you  seen  glass  blown; 

Pipes  pierced  ?    Why,  just  this  biscuit  that  I  chip, 

Did  you  ever  watch  a  baker  toss  one  flat 

To  the  oven  ?    Try  and  do  it !    Take  my  word, 

Practise  but  half  as  much,  while  limbs  are  lithe, 

To  turn,  shove,  tilt  a  table,  crack  your  joints, 

Manage  your  feet,  dispose  your  hands  aright, 

Work  wires  that  twitch  the  curtains,  play  the  glove 

At  end  o'  your  slipper,  —  then  put  out  the  lights 

And  .  .  .  there,  there,  all  you  want  you'll  get,  I  hope  I 

I  found  it  slip,  easy  as  an  old  shoe. 

Now,  lights  on  table  again  !    I've  done  my  part, 

You  take  my  place  while  I  give  thanks  and  rest. 

"  Well,  Judge  Humgruffin,  what's  your  verdict,  sir? 

You,  hardest  head  in  the  United  States,  — 

Did  you  detect  a  cheat  here  ?    Wait !    Let's  see  ! 

Just  an  experiment  first,  for  candor's  sake  ! 

I'll  try  and  cheat  you,  Judge  !    The  table  tilts  : 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM."  237 

Is  it  I  that  move  it  ?    Write  !    I'll  press  your  hand  : 
Cry  when  I  push,  or  guide  your  pencil,  Judge  !  " 
Sludge  still  triumphant !     "  That  a  rap,  indeed  ? 
That  the  real  writing  ?    Very  like  a  whale  ! 
Then,  if,  sir,  you  —  a  most  distinguished  man, 
And,  were  the  Judge  not  here,  I'd  say,  ...  no  mattei  f 
Well,  sir,  if  you  fail,  you  can't  take  us  in,  — 
There's  little  fear  that  Sludge  wili !  " 

Won't  he,  ma'am  ? 

But  what  if  our  distinguished  host,  like  Sludge, 
Bade  God  bear  witness  that  he  played  no  trick, 
While  you  believed  that  what  produced  the  raps 
Was  just  a  certain  child  who  died,  you  know, 
And  whose  last  breath  you  thought  your  lips  had  felt  ? 
Eh  ?    That's  a  capital  point,  ma'am  :  Sludge  begins 
At  your  entreaty  with  your  dearest  dead, 
The  little  voice  set  lisping  once  again, 
The  tiny  hand  made  feel  for  yours  once  more, 
The  poor  lost  image  brought  back,  plain  as  dreams, 
Which  image,  if  a  word  had  chanced  recall, 
The  customary  cloud  would  cross  your  eyes, 
Your  heart  return  the  old  tick,  pay  its  pang  ! 
A  right  mood  for  investigation,  this  ! 
One's  at  one's  ease  with  Saul  and  Jonathan, 
Pompey  and  Cresar  :  but  one's  own  lost  child  .  .  . 
I  wonder,  when  you  heard  the  first  clod  drop 
From  the  spadeful  at  the  grave,  did  you  feel  free 
To  investigate  who  twitched  your  funeral  scarf, 
Or  brushed  your  flounces  ?    Then,  it  came  of  course 
You  should  be  stunned  and  stupid  ;  then  (how  else  ?) 
Your  breath  stopped  with  your  blood,  your  brain  struck  work 
But  now,  such  causes  fail  of  such  effects, 
All's  changed,  —  the  little  voice  begins  afresh, 
Yet  you,  calm,  consequent,  can  test  and  try 
And  touch  the  truth.    "  Tests  ?    Didn't  the  creature  tell 
Its  nurse's  name,  and  say  it  lived  six  years, 
And  rode  a  rocking-horse  ?    Enough  of  tests  ! 
Sludge  never  could  learn  that !  " 

He  could  not,  eh  ? 

You  compliment  him     "  Could  not  V  "    Speak  for  yourself ! 
I'd  like  to  know  the  man  I  ever  saw 

Once,  —  never  mind  where,  how,  why,  when,  —  once  saw, 
Of  whom  I  do  not  keep  some  matter  treasured 
He'd  swear  I  "  could  not  "  know,  sagacious  soul ! 
What  ?    Do  you  live  in  this  world's  blow  of  blacks, 
Palaver,  gossipry,  a  single  hour 
Nor  find  one  smut  has  settled  on  your  nose, 
Of  a  smut's  worth,  no  more,  no  less  ?  —  one  fact 
Out  of  the  drift  of  facts,  whereby  you  learn 
What  some  one  was,  somewhere,  somewhen,  somevvhy  ? 
You  don't  tell  folk  —  "  See  what  has  stuck  to  me  ! 
Judge  Humgruffin,  our  most  distinguished  man, 
Your  uncle  was  a  tailor,  and  your  wife 
Thought  to  have  married  Miggs,  missed  him,  hit  you  1    — 
Do  you,  sir,  though  you  see  him  twice  a  week  ? 
"  No,"  you  reply,  "  what  use  retailing  it? 
Why  should  I  ?""    But,  you  see,  one  day  you  shoidd. 


238 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM. 


Because  one  day  there's  much  use,  —  when  this  fact 
Brings  you  the  Judge  upon  both  gouty  knees 
Before  the  supernatural ;  proves  that  Sludge 
Knows,  as  you  say,  a  thing  he  "  could  not "  know  : 
Will  not  Sludge  thenceforth  keep  an  outstretched  face 
The  way  the  wind  drives  ? 

"  Could  not !  "    Look  you  now 
I'll  tell  you  a  story  !    There's  a  whiskered  chap, 
A  foreigner,  that  teaches  miisic  here 
And  gets  his  bread,  —  knowing  no  better  way. 
He  says,  the  fellow  who  informed  of  him 
And  made  him  fly  his  country  and  fall  West, 
Was  a  hunchback  cobbler,  sat,  stitched  soles,  and  sang, 
In  some  outlandish  place,  the  city  Rome, 
In  a  cellar  by  their  Broadway,  all  day  long  ; 
Never  asked  questions,  stopped  to  listen  or  look, 
Nor  lifted  nose  from  lapstone  ;  let  the  world 
Roll  round  his  three-legged  stool,  and  news  run  in 
The  ears  he  hardly  seemed  to  keep  pricked  up. 
Well,  that  man  went  on  Sundays,  touched  his  pay, 
And  took  his  praise  from  government,  you  see  ; 
For  something  like  two  dollars  every  week, 
He'd  engage  tell  you  some  one  little  thing 
Of  some  one  man,  which  led  to  many  more 
(Because  one  truth  leads  right  to  the  world's  end), 
And  make  you  that  man's  master  —  when  he  dined 
And  on  what  dish,  where  walked  to  keep  his  health, 
And  to  what  street.    His  trade  was,  throwing  thus 
His  sense  out,  like  an  anteater's  long  tongue, 
Soft,  innocent,  warm,  moist,  impassible, 
And  when  'twas  crusted  o'er  with  creatures  —  slick, 
Their  juice  enriched  his  palate.    "  Could  not  Sludge  !  " 
I'll  go  yet  a  step  farther,  and  maintain, 
Once  the  imposture  plunged  its  proper  depth 
I'  the  rotten  of  your  natures,  all  of  you  — 
(If  one's  not  mad  nor  drunk,  and  hardly  then), 
It's  impossible  to  cheat —that's,  be  found  out ! 
Go  tell  your  brotherhood  this  first  slip  of  mine, 
All  to-day's  tale,  how  you  detected  Sludge, 
Behaved  unpleasantly!  till  he  was  fain  confess, 
And  so  has  come  to  grief  !    You'll  find,  I  think, 
Why  Sludge  still  snaps  his  fingers  in  your  face. 
There  now,  you've  told  them  !    What's  their  prompt  reply  ? 
"  Sir,  did  that  youth  confess  he  had  cheated  me, 
I'd  disbelieve  him.    He  may  cheat  at  times  ; 
That's  in  the  '  medium  '-nature,  thus  they're  made. 
Vain  and  vindictive,  cowards,  prone  to  scratch. 
And  so  all  cats  are  ;  still  a  cat's  the  beast 
You  coax  the  strange  electric  sparks  from  out, 
By  rubbing  back  its  fur  ;  not  so  a  dog, 
Nor  lion,  nor  lamb  :  'tis  the  cat's  nature,  sir  ! 
Why  not  the  dog's  ?    Ask  God,  who  made  them  beasts ! 
D'ye  think  the  sound,  the  nicely  balanced  man 
Like  me  "  —  (aside)  —  "  like  you  yourself,"  —  (aloud) 
—  "  He's  stuff  to  make  a  '  medium  '  ?    Bless  your  soul, 
'Tis  these  hysteric,  hybrid  half-and-halfs, 
Equivocal,  worthless  vermin  yield  the  fire  ! 
We  must  take  such  as  we  find  them,  'ware  their  tricks, 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM." 


239 


"Wanting  their  service.     Sir,  Sludge  took  in  you  — 
How,  I  can't  say,  not  being  there  to  watch  : 
He  was  tried,  was  tempted  by  your  easiness,  — 
He  did  not  take  in  me  !  " 

Thank  you  for  Sludge  ! 
I'm  to  be  grateful  to  such  patrons,  eh, 
When  what  you  hear's  my  best  word  ?    'Tis  a  challenge 
"  Snap  at  all  strangers,  half-tamed  prairie-dog, 
So  you  cower  duly  at  your  keeper's  nod  ! 
Cat,  show  what  claws  were  made  for,  muffling  them 
Only  to  me  !     Cheat  others  if  you  can, 
Me,*if  you  dare  !  "     And,  my  wise  sir,  I  dared  — 
Did  cheat  you  first,  made  you  cheat  others  next, 
And  had  the  help  o'  your  vaunted  manliness 
To  bully  the  incredulous.    You  used  me  ? 
Have  not  I  used  you,  taken  full  revenge, 
Persuaded  folk  they  knew  not  their  own  name, 
And  straight  they'd  own  the  error  !    Who  was  the  fool 
When,  to  an  awe-struck  wide-eyed  open-mouthed 
Circle  of  sages.  Sludge  would  introduce 
Milton  composing  baby-rhymes,  and  Locke 
Reasoning  in  gibberish,  Homer  writing  Greek 
In  naughts  and  crosses,  Asaph  setting  psalms 
To  crotchet  and  quaver  ?    I've  made  a  spirit  squeak 
In  sham  voice  for  a  minute,  then  outbroke 
Bold  in  my  own,  defying  the  imbeciles  — 
Have  copied  some  ghost's  pothooks,  half  a  page, 
Then  ended  with  my  own  scrawl  undisguised. 
"  All  right !    The  ghost  was  merely  using  Sludge, 
Suiting  itself  from  his  imperfect  stock  ! ' 
Don't  talk  of  gratitude  to  me  !     For  what  ? 
For  being  treated  as  a  showman's  ape, 
Encouraged  to  be  wicked  and  make  sport, 
Fret  or  sulk,  grin  or  whimper,  any  mood 
So  long  as  the  ape  be  in  it  and  no  man  — 
Because  a  nut  pays  every  mood  alike. 
Curse  your  superior,  superintending  sort, 
Who,  since  you  hate  smoke,  send  up  boys  that  climb 
To  cure  your  chimney,  bid  a  "  medium  "  lie 
To  sweep  you  truth  down  !    Curse  your  women  too, 
Your  insolent  wives  and  daughters,  that  fire  up 
Or  faint  away  if  a  male  hand  squeeze  theirs, 
Yet,  to  encourage  Sludge,  may  play  with  Sludge 
As  only  a  "  medium,"  only  the  kind  of  thing 
They  must  humor,  fondle  .  .  .  oh,  to  misconceive 
Were  too  preposterous  !     But  I've  paid  them  out ! 
They've  had  their  wish  — called  for  the  naked  truth, 
And  in  she  tripped,  sat  down,  and  bade  them  stare  : 
They  had  to  blush  a  little  and  forgive  ! 
"  The  fact  is,  children  talk  so  ;  in  next  world 
All  our  conventions  are  reversed,  —  perhaps 
Made  light  of  :  something  like  old  prints,  my  dear  ! 
The  Judge  has  one,  he  brought  from  Italy, 
A  metropolis  in  the  background,  —  o'er  a  bridge, 
A  team  of  trotting  roadsters,  —  cheerful  groups 
Of  wayside  travellers,  peasants  at  their  work, 
And,  full  in  front,  quite  unconcerned,  why  not? 
Three  nymphs  conversing  with  a  cavalier, 


240 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE   MEDIUM" 


And  never  a  rag  among  them  :  '  fine,'  folk  cry  — 

And  heavenly  manners  seem  not  much  unlike  ! 

Let  Sludge  go  on  :  we'll  fancy  it's  in  print !  " 

If  such  as  came  for  wool,  sir,  went  home  shorn, 

Where  is  the  wrong  I  did  them  ?    'Twas  their  choice  : 

They  tried  the  adventure,  ran  the  risk,  tossed  up 

And  lost,  as  some  one's  sure  to  do  in  games  ; 

They  fancied  I  was  made  to  lose,  —  smoked  glass 

Useful  to  spy  the  sun  through,  spare  their  eyes  : 

And  had  I  proved  a  red-hot  iron  plate 

They  thought  to  pierce,  and,  for  their  pains,  grew  blind, 

Whose  were  the  fault  but  theirs  ?    While,  as  things  go, 

Their  loss  amounts  to  gain,  the  more's  the  shame  ! 

They've  had  their  peep  into  the  spirit-world, 

And  all  this  world  may  know  it  !    They've  fed  fat 

Their  self-conceit  which  else  had  starved  :  what  chance 

Save  this,  of  cackling  o'er  a  golden  egg 

And  compassing  distinction  from  the  flock, 

Friends  of  a  feather  ?    Well,  they  paid  for  it, 

And  not  prodigiously  ;  the  price  o'  the  play, 

Not  counting  certain  pleasant  interludes, 

Was  scarce  a  vulgar  play's  worth.    When  you  buy 

The  actor's  talent,  do  you  dare  propose 

For  his  soul  beside  ?    Whereas,  my  soul  you  buy  ! 

Sludge  acts  Macbeth,  obliged  to  be  Macbeth, 

Or  you'll  not  hear  his  first  word  !    Just  go  through 

That  slight  formality,  swear  himself's  the  Thane, 

And  thenceforth  he  may  strut  and  fret  his  hour, 

Spout,  sprawl,  or  spin  his  target,  no  one  cares  ! 

Why  hadn't  I  leave  to  play  tricks,  Sludge  as  Sludge  ? 

Enough  of  it  all  !    I've  wiped  out  scores  with  you  — 

Vented  your  fustian,  let  myself  be  streaked 

Like  torn-fool  with  your  ochre  and  carmine, 

Worn  patchwork  your  respectable  fingers  sewed 

To  metamorphose  somebody,  —  yes,  I've  earned 

My  wages,  swallowed  down  my  bread  of  shame, 

And  shake  the  crumbs  off  —  where  but  in  your  face  ? 

As  for  religion  —  why,  I  served  it,  sir  ! 
I'll  stick  to  that  !     With  my  phenomena 
I  laid  the  atheist  sprawling  on  his  back, 
Propped  up  Saint  Paul,  or,  at  least,  Swedenborg ! 
In  fact,  it's  just  the  proper  way  to  balk 
These  troublesome  fellows  —  liars,  one  and  all, 
Are  not  these  sceptics  ?    Well,  to  baflie  them, 
No  use  in  being  squeamish  :  lie  yourself  ! 
Erect  your  buttress  just  as  wide  o'  the  line, 
Your  side,  as  they've  built  up  the  wall  on  theirs  ; 
Where  both  meet,  midway  in  a  point,  is  truth, 
High  overhead  :  so,  take  your  room,  pile  bricks, 
Lie  !    Oh,  there's  titillation  in  all  shame  ! 
What  snow  may  lose  in  white,  it  gains  in  rose  ! 
Miss  Stokes  turns  —  Rahab,  —  nor  a  bad  exchange  ! 
Glory  be  on  her,  for  the  good  she  wrought, 
Breeding  belief  anew  'neath  ribs  of  death, 
Brow-beating  now  the  unabashed  before, 
Ridding  us  of  their  whole  life's  gathered  straws 
By  a  live  coal  from  the  altar  !     Why,  of  old, 
Great  men  spent  years  and  years  in  writing  books 


MIL   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM.' 


241 


To  prove  we've  souls,  and  hardly  proved  it  then  : 

Miss  Stokes  with  her  live  coal,  for  you  and  me  1 

Surely,  to  this  good  issue,  all  was  fair  — 

Not  only  fondling  Sludge,  but,  even  suppose 

He  let  escape  some  spice  of  knavery,  —  well, 

In  wisely  being  blind  to  it !    Don't  you  praise 

Nelson  for  setting  spy-glass  to  blind  eye 

And  saying  .  .  .  what  was  it  —  that  he  could  not  see 

The  signal  he  was  bothered  with  ?    Ay,  indeed  ! 

I'll  go  beyond  :  there's  a  real  love  of  a  lie, 

Liars  find  ready-made  for  lies  they  make, 

As  hand  for  glove,  or  tongue  for  sugar-plum. 

At  best,  'tis  never  pure  and  full  belief  ; 

Those  farthest  in  the  quagmire,  —  don't  suppose 

They  strayed  there  with  no  warning,  got  no  chance 

Of  a  filth-speck  in  their  face,  which  they  clinched  teeth, 

Bent  brow  against !    Be  sure  they  had  their  doubts, 

And  fears,  and  fairest  challenges  to  try 

The  floor  o'  the  seeming  solid  sand  !    But  no  ! 

Their  faith  was  pledged,  acquaintance  too  apprised, 

All  but  the  last  step  ventured,  kerchiefs  waved, 

And  Sludge  called  "  pet :  "  'twas  easier  marching  ou 

To  the  promised  land  ;  join  those  who,  Thursday  next, 

Meant  to  meet  Shakspeare  ;  better  follow  Sludge  — 

Prudent,  oh  sure  !  —  on  the  alert,  how  else  ? 

But  making  for  the  mid-bog,  all  the  same  ! 

To  hear  your  outcries,  one  would  think  I  caught 

Miss  Stokes  by  the  scuff  o'  the  neck,  and  pitched  her  flat, 

Foolish-face-foremost !    Hear  these  simpletons, 

That's  all  I  beg,  before  my  work's  begun, 

Before  I've  touched  them  with  my  finger-tip  ! 

Thus  they  await  me  (do  but  listen,  now  ! 

It's  reasoning,  this  is,  —  I  can't  imitate 

The  baby  voice,  though)  "  In  so  many  tales 

Must  be  some  truth,  truth  though  a  pin-point  big, 

Yet,  some  :  a  single  man's  deceived,  perhaps  — 

Hardly,  a  thousand  :  to  suppose  one  cheat 

Can  gull  all  these,  were  more  miraculous  far 

Than  aught  we  should  confess  a  miracle  "  — 

And  so  on.    Then  the  Judge  sums  up  —  (it's  rare) 

Bids  you  respect  the  authorities  that  leap 

To  the  judgment-seat  at  once,  —  why,  don't  you  note 

The  limpid  nature,  the  unblemished  life, 

The  spotless  honor,  indisputable  sense 

Of  the  first  upstart  with  his  story  ?    What  — 

Outrage  a  boy  on  whom  you  ne'er  till  now 

Set  eyes,  because  he  finds  raps  trouble  him  ? 

Fools,  these  are  :  ay,  and  how  of  their  opposites 
Who  never  did,  at  bottom  of  their  hearts, 
Believe  for  a  moment  ?  —    Men  emasculate, 
Blank  of  belief,  who  played,  as  eunuchs  use, 
With  superstition  safely,  —  cold  of  blood, 
Who  saw  what  made  for  them  i'  the  mystery, 
Took  their  occasion,  and  supported  Sludge 

—  As  proselytes  ?    No,  thank  you,  far  too  shrewd  f 

—  But  promisers  of  fair  play,  encouragers 

O'  th«  claimant ;  who  in  candor  needs  must  hoist 


242 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM." 


Sludge  up  on  Mars'  Hill,  get  speech  out  of  Sludge 

To  carry  off,  criticise,  and  cant  about ! 

Didn't  Athens  treat  Saint  Paul  so  ?  —  at  any  rate, 

It's  "  a  new  thing,"  philosophy  fumbles  at. 

Then  there's  the  other  picker  out  of  pearl 

From  dung-heaps, — ay,  your  literary  man, 

Who  draws  on  his  kid  gloves  to  deal  with  Sludge 

Daintily  and  discreetly,  — shakes  a  dust 

O'  the  doctrine,  flavors  thence,  he  well  knows  how, 

The  narrative  or  the  novel,  — half-believes, 

All  for  the  book's  sake,  and  the  public's  stare, 

And  the  cash  that's  God's  sole  solid  in  this  world  ! 

Look  at  him  !    Try  to  be  too  bold,  too  gross 

For  the  master  !    Not  you  !    He's  the  man  for  muck  ; 

Shovel  it  forth,  full-splash,  he'll  smooth  your  brown 

Into  artistic  richness,  never  fear  ! 

Find  him  the  crude  stuff  ;  when  you  recognize 

Your  lie  again,  you'll  doff  your  hat  to  it, 

Dressed  out  for  company  !     "  For  company," 

I  say,  since  there's  the  relish  of  success  : 

Let  all  pay  due  respect,  call  the  lie  truth, 

Save  the  soft,  silent,  smirking  gentleman 

Who  ushered  in  the  stranger  :  you  must  sigh 

"  How  melancholy,  he,  the  only  one 

Fails  to  perceive  the  bearing  of  the  truth 

Himself  gave  birth  to  !  "  —    There's  the  triumph's  smack ! 

That  man  would  choose  to  see  the  whole  world  roll 

I'  the  slime  o'  the  slough,  so  he  might  touch  the  tip 

Of  his  brush  with  what  I  call  the  best  of  browns  — 

Tint  ghost-tales,  spirit-stories,  past  the  power 

Of  the  outworn  umber  and  bistre  ! 

Yet  I  think 

There's  a  more  hateful  form  of  foolery  — 
The  social  sage's,  Solomon  of  saloons 
And  philosophic  diner-out,  the  fribble 
Who  wants  a  doctrine  for  a  chopping-block 
To  try  the  edge  of  his  faculty  upon, 
Prove  how  much  common  sense  he'll  hack  and  hew 
I'  the  critical  minute  'twixt  the  soup  and  fish  ! 
These  were  my  patrons  :  these,  and  the  like  of  them 
Who,  rising  in  my  soul  now,  sicken  it.  — 
These  I  have  injured  !    Gratitude  to  these  ? 
The  gratitude,  forsooth,  of  a  prostitute 
To  the  greenhorn  and  the  bully  — friends  of  hers, 
From  the  wag  that  wants  the  queer  jokes  for  his  club, 
To  the  snuff-box-decorator,  honest  man, 
Who  just  was  at  his  wits'  end  where  to  find 
So  genial  a  Pasiphae  !     All  and  each 
Pay,  compliment,  protect  from  the  police, 
And  how  she  hates  them  for  their  pains,  like  me  ! 
So  much  for  my  remorse  at  thanklessness 
Toward  a  deserving  public  1 

But,  for  God  ? 

Ay,  that's  a  question  !    Well,  sir,  since  you  press  — 
(How  you  do  teaze  the  whole  thing  out  of  me  ! 
I  don't  mean  you,  you  know,  when  I  say,  "  them  : '' 
Hate  you,  indeed  !    But  that  Miss  Stokes,  that  Judge  I 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE   MEDIUM.' 


Enough,  enough —  with  sugar  :  thank  you,  sir  !) 

Now  for  it  then  !     Will  you  believe  me,  though  ? 

You've  heard  what  I  confess  ;  I  don't  unsay 

A  single  word  :  I  cheated  when  I  could, 

Rapped  with  my  toe-joints,  set  sham  hands  at  work, 

Wrote  down  names  weak  in  sympathetic  ink, 

Rubbed  odic  lights  with  ends  of  phosphor-match, 

And  all  the  rest ;  believe  that :  believe  this, 

By  the  same  token,  though  it  seem  to  set 

The  crooked  straight  again,  unsay  the  said, 

Stick  up  what  I've  thrown  down  ;  I  can't  help  that, 

It's  truth  !     I  somehow  vomit  truth  to-day. 

This  trade  of  mine  —  I  don't  know,  can't'be  sure 

But  there  was  something  in  it,  tricks  and  all ! 

Really,  I  want  to  light  up  my  own  mind. 

They  were  tricks,  —  true,  but  what  I  mean  to  add 

Is  also  true.     First,  —  don't  it  strike  you,  sir  ? 

Go  back  to  the  beginning,  —  the  first  fact 

We're  taught  is,  there's  a  world  beside  this  world, 

With  spirits,  not  mankind,  for  tenantry  ; 

That  much  within  that  world  once  sojourned  here, 

That  all  upon  this  world  will  visit  there, 

And  therefore  that  we,  bodily  here  below, 

Must  have  exactly  such  an  interest 

In  learning  what  may  be  the  ways  o'  the  world 

Above  us,  as  the  disembodied  folk 

Have  (by  all  analogic  likelihood) 

In  watching  how  things  go  in  the  old  world 

With  us,  their  sons,  successors,  and  what  not. 

Oh,  yes,  with  added  powers  probably, 

Fit  for  the  novel  state,  —  old  loves  grown  pure, 

Old  interests  understood  aright,  — they  watch  ! 

Eyes  to  see,  ears  to  hear,  and  hands  to  help, 

Proportionate  to  advancement  :  they're  ahead, 

That's  all  —  do  what  we  do,  but  noblier  done  — 

Use  plate,  whereas  we  eat  our  meals  off  delf 

(To  use  a  figure). 

Concede  that,  and  I  ask 
Next  what  may  be  the  mode  of  intercourse 
Between  us  men  here,  and  those  once-men  there  ? 
First  comes  the  Bible's  speech  ;  then,  history 
With  the  supernatural  element,  —  you  know  — 
All  that  we  sucked  in  with  our  mothers'  milk, 
Grew  up  with,  got  inside  of  us  at  last, 
Till  it's  found  bone  of  bone  and  flesh  of  flesh. 
See  now,  we  start  with  the  miraculous, 
And  know  it  used  to  be,  at  all  events  : 
What's  the  first  step  we  take,  and  can't  but  take, 
In  arguing  from  the  known  to  the  obscure  ? 
Why,  this  :  "  What  was  before,  may  be  to-day. 
Since  Samuel's  ghost  appeared  to  Saul,  —  of  course 
My  brother's  spirit  may  appear  to  me." 
Go  tell  your  teacher  that !     What's  his  reply  ? 
What  brings  a  shade  of  doubt  for  the  first  time 
O'er  his  brow  late  so  luminous  with  faith  ? 
"  Such  things  have  been,"  says  he,  "  and  there's  no  donb«; 
Such  things  may  be  :  but  I  advise  mistrust 
Of  eyes,  ears,  stomach,  — more  than  all,  of  brain, 


244 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUMS 


Unless  it  be  of  your  great-grandmother, 

Whenever  they  propose  a  ghost  to  you  !  " 

The  end  is,  there's  a  composition  struck  ; 

'Tis  settled,  we've  some  way  of  intercourse 

Just  as  in  Saul's  time  ;  only,  different : 

How,  when,  and  where,  precisely,  —  find  it  out ! 

I  want  to  know,  then,  what's  so  natural 

As  that  a  person  born  into  this  world 

And  seized  on  by  such  teaching,  should  begin 

With  firm  expectancy  and  a  frank  look-out 

For  his  own  allotment,  his  especial  share 

I'  the  secret,  —  his  particular  ghost,  in  fine  ? 

I  mean,  a  person  born  to  look  that  way, 

Since  natures  differ  :  take  the  painter-sort, 

One  man  lives  fifty  years  in  ignorance 

Whether  grass  be  green  or  red,  —  "  No  kind  of  eye 

For  color,"  say  you  ;  while  another  picks 

And  puts  away  even  pebbles,  when  a  child, 

Because  of  bluish  spots  and  pinky  veins  — 

"Give  him  forthwith  a  paint-box  !  "    Just  the  same 

Was  I  born  ..."  medium,"  you  won't  let  me  say, — 

Well,  seer  of  the  supernatural 

Every  when,  everyhow,  and  everywhere,  — 

Will  that  do  ? 

I  and  all  such  boys  of  course 
Started  with  the  same  stock  of  Bible-truth  ; 
Only,  —  what  in  the  rest  you  style  their  sense, 
Instinct,  blind  reasoning  but  imperative, 
This,  betimes,  taught  them  the  old  world  had  one  law 
And  ours  another  :  "  New  world,  new  laws,"  cried  they  : 
"  None  but  old  laws,  seen  everywhere  at  work," 
Cried  I,  and  by  their  help  explained  my  life 
The  Jews'  way,  still  a  working  way  to  me. 
Ghosts  made  the  noises,  fairies  waved  the  lights, 
Or  Santa  Claus  slid  down  on  New- Year's  Eve 
And  stuffed  with  cakes  the  stocking  at  my  bed, 
Changed  the  worn  shoes,  rubbed  clean  the  fingered  slate 
O'  the  sum  that  came  to  grief  the  day  before. 

This  could  not  last  long  :  soon  enough  I  found 

Who  had  worked  wonders  thus,  and  to  what  end  : 

But  did  I  find  all  easy,  like  my  mates  ? 

Henceforth  no  supernatural  any  more  ? 

Not  a  whit :  what  projects  the  billiard-balls? 

"  A  cue,"  you  answer  :  "  Yes,  a  cue,"  said  I ; 

"  But  what  hand,  off  the  cushion,  moved  the  cue? 

What  unseen  agency,  outside  the  world, 

Prompted  its  puppets  to  do  this  and  that, 

Put  cakes  and  shoes  and  slates  into  their  mind, 

These  mothers  and  aunts,  nay  eAren  schoolmasters  ?  " 

Thus  high  I  sprang,  and  there  have  settled  since. 

Just  so  I  reason,  in  sober  earnest  still, 

About  the  greater  godsends,  what  you  call 

The  serious  gains  and  losses  of  my  life. 

What  do  I  know  or  care  about  your  world 

Which  either  is  or  seems  to  be  ?    This  snap 

O'  my  fingers,  sir !    My  care  is  for  myself  ; 

Myself  am  whole  and  sole  reality 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM: 


245 


Inside  a  raree-show  and  a  market-mob 

Gathered  about  it :  that's  the  use  of  things. 

'Tis  easy  saying  they  serve  vast  purposes, 

Advantage  their  grand  selves  :  be  it  true  or  false, 

Each  thing  may  have  two  uses.    What's  a  star  ? 

A  world,  or  a  world's  sun  :  doesn't  it  serve 

As  taper  also,  time-piece,  weather-glass, 

And  almanac  ?    Are  stars  not  set  for  signs 

When  we  should  shear  our  sheep,  sow  corn,  prune  trees  ? 

The  Bible  says  so. 

Well,  I  add  one  use 

To  all  the  acknowledged  uses,  and  declare 
If  I  spy  Charles's  Wain  at  twelve  to-night, 
It  warns  me,  "  Go,  nor  lose  another  day, 
And  have  your  hair  cut,  Sludge  !  "    You  laugh  :  and  why? 
Were  such  a  sign  too  hard  for  God  to  give  ? 
No  :  but  Sludge  seems  too  little  for  such  grace  : 
Thank  you,  sir  !    So  you  think,  so  does  not  Sludge  ! 
When  you  and  good  men  gape  at  Providence, 
Go  into  history  and  bid  us  mark 
Not  merely  powder-plots  prevented,  crowns 
Kept  on  kings'  heads  by  miracle  enough, 
But  private  mercies  —  oh,  you've  told  me,  sir, 
Of  such  interpositions  !    How  yourself 
Once,  missing  on  a  memorable  day 
Your  handkerchief  —  just  setting  out,  you  know,  — 
You  must  return  to  fetch  it,  lost  the  train, 
And  saved  your  precious  self  from  what  befell 
The  thirty-three  whom  Providence  forgot. 
You  tell,  and  ask  me  what  I  think  of  this  ? 
Well,  sir,  I  think,  then,  since  you  needs  must  know, 
What  matter  had  you  and  Boston  City  to  boot 
Sailed  skyward,  like  burnt  onion-peelings?    Much 
To  you,  no  doubt :  for  me  —  undoubtedly 
The  cutting  of  my  hair  concerns  me  more, 
Because,  however  sad  the  truth  may  seem, 
Sludge  is  of  all-importance  to  himself. 
You  set  apart  that  day  in  every  year 
For  special  thanksgiving,  were  a  heathen  else  : 
Well,  I  who  cannot  boast  the  like  escape, 
Suppose  I  said  "  I  don't  thank  Providence 
For  my  part,  owing  it  no  gratitude  ?  "  — 
"  Nay,  but  you  owe  as  much  "  —  you'd  tutor  me, 
You,  every  man  alive,  for  blessings  gained 
In  every  hour  o'  the  day,  could  you  but  know  ! 
I  saw  my  crowning  mercy  :  all  have  such, 
Could  they  but  see  !  "    Well,  sir,  why  don't  they  see  ? 
"  Because  they  won't  look,  —  or  perhaps  they  can't." 
Then,  sir,  suppose  I  can,  and  will,  and  do 
Look,  microscopically  as  is  right, 
Into  each  hour  with  its  infinitude 
Of  influences  at  work  to  profit  Sludge  ? 
For  that's  the  case  :  I've  sharpened  up  my  sight 
To  spy  a  providence  in  the  fire's  going  out, 
The  kettle's  boiling,  the  dime's  sticking  fast 
Despite  the  hole  i'  the  pocket.    Call  such  facts 
Fancies,  too  petty  a  work  for  Providence, 
And  those  same  thanks  which  you  exact  from  me, 


s — 


246 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM.' 


Prove  too  prodigious  payment  :  thanks  for  what, 

If  nothing  guards  and  guides  us  little  men  ? 

No,  no,  sir  !    You  must  put  away  your  pride, 

Resolve  to  let  Sludge  into  partnership  ! 

I  live  by  signs  and  omens  :  look  at  the  roof 

Where  the  pigeons  settle  —  "  If  the  farther  bird, 

The  white,  takes  wing  first,  I'll  confess  when  thrashed  ; 

Not,  if  the  blue  does  "  —  so  I  said  to  myself 

Last  week,  lest  you  should  take  me  by  surprise  : 

Off  flapped  the  white,  —  and  I'm  confessing,  sir  ! 

Perhaps  'tis  Providence's  whim  and  way 

"With  only  me,  i'  the  world  :  how  can  you  tell  ? 

"  Because  unlikely  !  "    Was  it  likelier,  now, 

That  this  our  one  out  of  all  worlds  beside, 

The  what-d'you-call-'em  millions,  should  be  just 

Precisely  chosen  to  make  Adam  for, 

And  the  rest  o'  the  tale  ?    Yet  the  tale's  true,  yon  know ; 

Such  undeserving  clod  was  graced  so  once  ; 

Why  not  graced  likewise  undeserving  Sludge  ? 

Are  we  merit-mongers,  flaunt  we  filthy  rags  ? 

All  you  can  bring  against  my  privilege 

Is,  that  another  way  was  taken  with  you,  — 

Which  I  don't  question.    It's  pure  grace,  my  luck. 

I'm  broken  to  the  way  of  nods  and  winks, 

And  need  no  formal  summoning.    You've  a  help  ; 

Holloa  his  name  or  whistle,  clap  your  hands, 

Stamp  with  your  foot  or  pull  the  bell  :  all's  one, 

He  understands  you  want  him,  here  he  comes. 

Just  so,  I  come  at  the  knocking  :  you,  sir,  wait 

The  tongue  o'  the  bell,  nor  stir  before  you  catch 

Reason's  clear  tingle,  nature's  clapper  brisk, 

Or  that  traditional  peal  was  wont  to  cheer 

Your  mother's  face  turned  heavenward  :  short  of  these 

There's  no  authentic  intimation,  eh  ? 

Well,  when  you  hear,  you'll  answer  them,  start  up 

And  stride  into  the  presence,  top  of  toe, 

And  there  find  Sludge  beforehand,  Sludge  that  sprung 

At  noise  o'  the  knuckle  on  the  partition-wall ! 

I  think  myself  the  more  religious  man. 

Religion's  all  or  nothing  ;  it's  no  mere  smile 

O'  contentment,  sigh  of  aspiration,  sir  — 

No  quality  o'  the  finelier-tempered  clay 

Like  its  whiteness  or  its  lightness  ;  rather,  stuff 

O'  the  very  stuff,  life  of  life,  and  self  of  self. 

I  tell  you,  men  won't  notice  ;  when  they  do, 

They'll  understand.    I  notice  nothing  else, 

I'm  eyes,  ears,  mouth  of  me,  one  gaze  and  gape, 

Nothing  eludes  me,  every  thing's  a  hint, 

Handle,  and  help.    It's  all  absurd,  and  yet 

There's  something  in  it  all,  I  know  :  how  much  ? 

No  answer  !    What  does  that  prove  ?    Man's  still  mai% 

Still  meant  for  a  poor  blundering  piece  of  work 

When  all's  done  ;  but,  if  somewhat's  done,  like  this, 

Or  not  done,  is  the  case  the  same  ?    Suppose 

I  blunder  in  my  guess  at  the  true  sense 

O'  the  knuckle-summons,  nine  times  out  of  ten,  — 

What  if  the  tenth  guess  happen  to  be  right  ? 

If  the  tenth  shovel-load  of  powdered  quartz 

Yield  me  the  nugget  ?    I  gather,  crush,  sift  all, 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM." 


Pass  o'er  the  failure,  pounce  on  the  success. 

To  give  you  a  notion,  now  —  (let  who  wins,  laugh  !) 

When  first  I  see  a  man,  what  do  I  first  ? 

Why.  count  the  letters  which  make  up  his  name, 

And  as  their  number  chances,  even  or  odd, 

Arrive  at  my  conclusion,  trim  my  course  : 

Hiram  H.  Horsefall  is  your  honored  name, 

And  haven't  I  found  a  patron,  sir,  in  you  ? 

"  Shall  I  cheat  this  stranger  ?  "    I  take  apple-pips, 

Stick  one  in  either  canthus  of  my  eye, 

And  if  the  left  drops  first  —  (your  left,  sir,  stuck) 

I'm  warned,  I  let  the  trick  alone  this  time. 

You,  sir,  who  smile,  superior  to  such  trash, 

You  judge  of  character  by  other  rules  : 

Don't  your  rules  sometimes  fail  you  ?    Pray,  what  rule 

Have  you  judged  Sludge  by  hitherto  ? 

Oh,  be  sure, 

You,  everybody  blunders,  just  as  I, 
In  simpler  things  than  these  by  far  !     For  see  : 
I  knew  two  farmers,  —  one,  a  wiseacre 
Who  studied  seasons,  rummaged  almanacs, 
Quoted  the  dew-point,  registered  the  frost, 
And  then  declared,  for  outcome  of  his  pains, 
Next  summer  must  be  dampish  :  'twas  a  drought. 
His  neighbor  prophesied  such  drought  would  fall, 
Saved  hay  and  corn,  made  cent  per  cent  thereby, 
And  proved  a  sage  indeed  :  how  came  his  lore  ? 
Because  one  brindled  heifer,  late  in  March, 
Stiffened  her  tail  of  evenings,  and  somehow 
He  got  into  his  head  that  drought  was  meant ! 
I  don't  expect  all  men  can  do  as  much  : 
Such  kissing  goes  by  favor.    You  must  take 
A  certain  turn  of  mind  for  this,  —  a  twist 
I'  the  flesh,  as  well.     Be  lazily  alive, 
Open-mouthed,  like  my  friend  the  anteater, 
Letting  all  nature's  loosely  guarded  motes 
Settle  and,  slick,  be  swallowed  !    Think  yourself 
The  one  i'  the  world,  the  one  for  whom  the  world 
Was  made,  expect  it  tickling  at  your  mouth  ! 
Then  will  the  swarm  of  busy  buzzing  flies, 
Clouds  of  coincidence,  break  egg-shell,  thrive, 
Breed,  multiply,  and  bring  you  food  enough. 
I  can't  pretend  to  mind  your  smiling,  sir  ! 
Oh,  what  you  mean  is  this  !     Such  intimate  way, 
Close  converse,  frank  exchange  of  offices, 
Strict  sympathy  of  the  immeasurably  great 
With  the  infinitely  small,  betokened  here 
By  a  course  of  signs  and  omens,  raps  and  sparks,  — 
How  does  it  suit  the  dread  traditional  text 

O'  the  "  Great  and  Terrible  Name  ?  "    Shall  the  Heaven  of  heavens 
Stoop  to  such  child's  play  ? 

Please,  sir,  go  with  me 
A  moment,  and  I'll  try  to  answer  you. 
The  "  Magnum  et  terribile  "  (is  that  right?-) 
Well,  folk  began  with  this  in  the  early  day  ; 
And  all  the  acts  they  recognized  in  proof 
Were  thunders,  lightnings,  earthquakes,  whirlwinds,  dealt 


248 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUMS 


Indisputably  on  men  whose  death  they  caused. 

There,  and  there  only,  folk  saw  Providence 

At  work,  —  and  seeing  it,  'twas  right  enough 

All  heads  should  tremble,  hands  wring  hands  ainain, 

And  knees  knock  hard  together  at  the  breath 

O'  the  Name's  first  letter  ;  why,  the  Jews,  I'm  told, 

Won't  write  it  down,  no,  to  this  very  hour, 

Nor  speak  aloud  :  you  know  best  if't  be  so. 

Each  ague-fit  of  fear  at  end,  they  crept 

(Because  somehow  people  once  born  must  live) 

Out  of  the  sound,  sight,  swing,  and  sway  o'  the  Name, 

Into  a  corner,  the  dark  rest  of  the  world, 

And  safe  space  where  as  yet  no  fear  had  reached  ; 

'Twas  there  they  looked  about  them,  breathed  again, 

And  felt  indeed  at  home,  as  we  might  say. 

The  current  p'  common  things,  the  daily  life, 

This  had  their  due  contempt ;  no  Name  pursued 

Man  from  the  mountain-top  where  fires  abide, 

To  his  particular  mouse-hole  at  its  foot 

Where  he  ate,  drank,  digested,  lived  in  short : 

Such  was  man's  vulgar  business,  far  too  small 

To  be  worth  thunder  :  "  small,"  folk  kept  on,  "  small," 

With  much  complacency  in  those  great  days  ! 

A  mote  of  sand,  you  know,  a  blade  of  grass  — 

What  was  so  despicable  as  mere  grass, 

Except  perhaps  the  life  o'  the  worm  or  fly 

Which  fed  there  ?    These  were  "  small  "  and  men  were  great. 

Well,  sir,  the  old  way's  altered  somewhat  since, 

And  the  world  wears  another  aspect  now  : 

Somebody  turns  pur  spyglass  round,  or  else 

Puts  a  new  lens  in  it :  grass,  worm,  fly  grow  big  : 

We  find  great  things  are  made  of  little  things, 

And  little  things  go  lessening  till  at  last 

Comes  God  behind  them.    Talk  of  mountains  now  ? 

We  talk  of  mould  that  heaps  the  mountain,  mites 

That  throng  the  mould,  and  God  that  makes  the  mites. 

The  Name  comes  close  behind  a  stomach-cyst, 

The  simplest  of  creations,  just  a  sac 

That's  mouth,  heart,  legs,  and  belly  at  once,  yet  lives 

And  feels,  and  could  do  neither,  we  conclude, 

If  simplified  still  further  one  degree  : 

The  small  becomes  the  dreadful  and  immense  ! 

Lightning,  forsooth  ?    No  word  more  upon  that  ? 

A  tin-foil  bottle,  a  strip  of  greasy  silk, 

With  a  bit  of  wire  and  knob  of  brass,  and  there's 

Your  dollar's  worth  of  lightning  !     But  the  cyst  — 

The  life  of  the  least  of  the  little  things  ? 

No,  no ! 

Preachers  and  teachers  try  another  tack, 
Come  near  the  truth  this  time  :  they  put  aside 
Thunder  and  lightning  :  "  That's  mistake,"  they  cryf 
"  Thunderbolts  fall  for  neither  fright  nor  sport, 
But  do  appreciable  good,  like  tides, 
Changes  o'  the  wind,  and  other  natural  facts  — 
'  Good '  meaning  good  to  man,  his  body  or  soul. 
Mediate,  immediate,  all  things  minister 
To  man,  —  that's  settled  :  be  our  future  text 
'  We  are  His  children  ! '  "    So,  they  now  harangue 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE   MEDIUM.' 


249 


About  the  intention,  the  contrivance,  all 
That  keeps  up  an  incessant  play  of  love,  — 
See  the  Bridgewater  book. 

Amen  to  it ! 

Well,  sir,  I  put  this  question  :  I'm  a  child  ? 
I  lose  no  time,  but  take  you  at  your  word  : 
How  shall  I  act  a  child's  part  properly  ? 
Your  sainted  mother,  sir,  —  used  you  to  live 
With  such  a  thought  as  this  a-worrying  you  ? 
"  She  has  it  in  her  power  to  throttle  me, 
Or  stab  or  poison  :  she  may  turn  me  out, 
Or  lock  me  in,  —  nor  stop  at  this  to-day, 
But  cut  me  off  to-morrow  from  the  estate 
I  look  for  "  —  (long  may  you  enjoy  it,  sir  !) 
"  In  brief,  she  may  unchikl  the  child  I  am." 
You  never  had  such  crotchets  ?    Nor  have  I ! 
Who,  frank  confessing  childship  from  the  first, 
Cannot  both  fear  and  take  my  ease  at  once, 
So,  don't  fear,  —  know  what  might  be,  well  enough, 
But  know  too,  childlike,  that  it  will  not  be, 
At  least  in  my  case,  mine,  the  son  and  heir 
O'  the  kingdom,  as  yourself  proclaim  my  style. 
But  do  you  fancy  I  stop  short  at  this  ? 
Wonder  if  suit  and  service,  son  and  heir 
Needs  must  expect,  I  dare  pretend  to  find? 
If,  looking  for  signs  proper  to  such  an  one, 
I  straight  perceive  them  irresistible  ? 
Concede  that  homage  is  a  son's  plain  right. 
And,  never  mind  the  nods  and  raps  and  winks, 
'Tis  the  pure  obvious  supernatural 
Steps  forward,  does  its  duty  :  why,  of  course  ! 
I  have  presentiments  ;  my  dreams  come  true  : 
I  fancy  a  friend  stands  whistling  all  in  white 
Blithe  as  a  bob'link,  and  he's  dead  I  learn. 
I  take  dislike  to  a  dog  my  favorite  long, 
And  sell  him  :  he  goes  mad  next  week,  and  snaps. 
I  guess  that  stranger  will  turn  up  to-day 
I  have  not  seen  these  three  years  :  there's  his  knock. 
I  wager  "  sixty  peaches  on  that  tree  !  "  — 
That  I  pick  up  a  dollar  in  my  walk, 
That  your  wife's  brother's  cousin's  name  was  George  • 
And  win  on  all  points.    Oh  !  you  wince  at  tin's  ? 
You'd  fain  distinguish  between  gift  and  gift, 
Washington's  oracle  and  Sludge's  itch 
O'  the  elbow  when  at  whist  he  ought  to  trump  ? 
With  Sludge  it's  too  absurd  ?    Fine,  draw  the  line 
Somewhere ;  but,  sir,  your  somewhere  is  not  mine  ! 
Bless  us,  I'm  turning  poet !     It's  time  to  end. 
How  you  have  drawn  me  out,  sir  !    All  I  ask 
Is  —  am  I  heir  or  not  heir  ?    If  I'm  he, 
Then,  sir,  remember,  that  same  personage 
(To  judge  by  what  we  read  i'  the  newspaper) 
Requires,  beside  one  nobleman  in  gold 
To  carry  up  and  down  his  coronet, 
Another  servant,  probably  a  duke, 
To  hold  egg-nogg  in  readiness  :  why  want 
Attendance,  sir,  when  helps  in  his  father's  housfc 
Abound.  I'd  like  to  know  ? 


250 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM." 


Enough  of  talk  ! 

My  fault  is  that  I  tell  too  plain  a  truth. 
Why,  which  of  those  who  say  they  disbelieve, 
Your  clever  people,  but  has  dreamed  his  dream, 
Caught  his  coincidence,  stumbled  on  his  fact 
He  can't  explain  (he'll  tell  you  smilingly), 
Which  he's  too  much  of  a  philosopher 
To  count  as  supernatural,  indeed, 
So  calls  a  puzzle  and  problem,  proud  of  it : 
Bidding  you  still  be  on  your  guard,  you  know, 
Because  one  fact  don't  make  a  system  stand, 
Nor  prove  this  an  occasional  escape 
Of  spirit  beneath  the  matter  :  that's  the  way  ! 
Just  so  wild  Indians  picked  up,  piece  by  piece, 
The  fact  in  California,  the  fine  gold 
That  underlay  the  gravel  —  hoarded  these, 
But  never  made  a  system  stand,  nor  dug ! 
So  wise  men  hold  out  in  each  hollowed  palm 
A  handful  of  experience,  sparkling  fact 
They  can't  explain  ;  and  since  their  rest  of  life 
Is  all  explainable,  what  proof  in  this  ? 
Whereas  I  take  the  fact,  the  grain  of  gold, 
And  fling  away  the  dirty  rest  of  life, 
And  add  this  grain  to  the  grain  each  fool  has  found 
O'  the  million  other  such  philosophers, — 
Till  I  see  gold,  all  gold  and  only  gold, 
Truth  questionless  though  unexplainable, 
And  the  miraculous  proved  the  commonplace  ! 
The  other  fools  believed  in  mud,  no  doubt  — 
Failed  to  know  gold  they  saw  :  was  that  so  strange  ? 
Are  all  men  born  to  play  Bach's  fiddle-fugues, 
"  Time  "  with  the  foil  in  carte,  jump  their  own  height, 
Cut  the  mutton  with  the  broadsword,  skate  a  five, 
Make  the  red  hazard  with  the  cue,  clip  nails 
While  swimming,  in  five  minutes  row  a  mile, 
Pull  themselves  three  feet  up  with  the  left  arm, 
Do  sums  of  fifty  figures  in  their  head, 
And  so  on,  by  the  scores  of  instances  ? 
The  Sludge  with  luck,  who  sees  the  spiritual  facts, 
His  fellows  strive  and  fail  to  see,  may  rank 
With  these,  and  share  the  advantage. 

Ay,  but  share 

The  drawback  !    Think  it  over  by  yourself  : 
I  have  not  heart,  sir,  and  the  fire's  gone  gray. 
Defect  somewhere  compensates  for  success, 
Every  one  knows  that.     Oh,  we're  equals,  sir  ! 
The  big-legged  fellow  has  a  little  arm 
And  a  less  brain,  though  big  legs  win  the  race  : 
Do  you  suppose  I  'scape  the  common  lot  ? 
Say,  I  was  born  with  flesh  so  sensitive, 
Soul  so  alert,  that,  practice  helping  both, 
I  guess  what's  going  on  outside  the  veil, 
Just  as  a  prisoned  crane  feels  pairing-time 
In  the  islands  where  his  kind  are,  so  must  fall 
To  capering  by  himself  some  shiny  night, 
As  if  your  back-yard  were  a  plot  of  spice  — 
Thus  am  I  'ware  o'  the  spirit-world  :  while  you, 
Blind  as  a  beetle  that  way,  —for  amends, 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "  THE  MEDIUM."  251 

Why,  you  can  double  fist  and  floor  me,  sir  ! 

Ride  that  hot  hardmouthed  horrid  horse  of  yours, 

Laugh  while  it  lightens,  play  with  the  great  dog, 

Speak  your  mind  though  it  vex  some  friend  to  hear, 

Never  brag,  never  bluster,  never  blush,  — 

In  short,  you've  pluck,  when  I'm  a  coward  — there  ! 

I  know  it,  I  can't  help  it,  —  folly  or  no, 

I'm  paralyzed,  my  hand's  no  more  a  hand, 

Nor  my  head,  a  head,  in  danger  :  you  can  smile, 

And  change  the  pipe  in  your  cheek.    Your  gift's  not  mine. 

Would  you  swap  for  mine  ?    No  !  but  you'd  add  my  gift 

To  yours  :  I  dare  say  !    I  too  sigh  at  times, 

Wish  I  were  stouter,  could  tell  truth  nor  flinch, 

Kept  cool  when  threatened,  did  not  mind  so  much 

Being  dressed  gayly,  making  strangers  stare, 

Eating  nice  things  ;  when  I'd  amuse  myself, 

I  shut  my  eyes  and  fancy  in  my  brain, 

I'm  —  now  the  President,  now,  Jenny  Lind, 

Now,  Emerson,  now,  the  Benicia  Boy  — 

With  all  the  civilized  world  a-wondering 

And  worshipping.     I  know  it's  folly  and  worse  ; 

I  feel  such  tricks  sap,  honeycomb  the  soul : 

But  I  can't  cure  myself,  —  despond,  despair, 

And  then,  hey,  presto,  there's  a  turn  o'  the  wheel, 

Under  comes  uppermost,  fate  makes  full  amends  ; 

Sludge  knows  and  sees  and  hears  a  hundred  things 

You  all  are  blind  to,  —  I've  my  taste  of  truth, 

Likewise  my  touch  of  falsehood,  —  vice  no  doubt, 

But  you've  your  vices  also  :  I'm  content. 

What,  sir  ?    You  won't  shake  hands  ?    "  Because  I  cheat  1  " 

"  You've  found  me  out  in  cheating  !  "    That's  enough 

To  make  an  apostle  swear  !    Why,  when  I  cheat, 

Mean  to  cheat,  do  cheat,  and  am  ccnir/ht  in  the  act, 

Are  ?/o?/,  or  rather,  am  I  sure  o'  the  fact? 

(There's  verse  again,  but  I'm  inspired  somehow.) 

Well  then  I'm  not  sure  !    I  may  be,  perhaps, 

Free  as  a  babe  from  cheating  :  how  it  began, 

My  gift,  —  no  matter  ;  what  'tis  got  to  be 

In  the  end  now,  that's  the  question  :  answer  that ! 

Had  I  seen,  perhaps,  what  hand  was  holding  mine, 

Leading  me  whither,  I  had  died  of  fright, 

So,  I  was  made  believe  I  led  myself. 

If  I  should  lay  a  six-inch  plank*  from  roof 

To  roof,  you  would  not  cross  the  street,  one  step, 

Even  at  your  mother's  summons  :  but,  being  shrewd, 

If  I  paste  paper  on  each  side  the  plank, 

And  swear  'tis  solid  pavement,  why,  you'll  cross 

Humming  a  tune  the  while,  in  ignorance 

Beacon  Street  stretches  a  hundred  feet  below  : 

I  walked  thus,  took  the  paper-cheat  for  stone. 

Some  impulse  made  me  set  a  thing  o'  the  move 

Which,  started  once,  ran  really  by  itself  ; 

Beer  flows  thus,  suck  the  siphon  ;  toss  the  kite, 

It  takes  the  wind  and  floats  of  its  own  force. 

Don't  let  truth's  lump  rot  stagnant  for  the  lack 

Of  a  timely  helpful  lie  to  leaven  it ! 

Put  a  chalk-egg  beneath  the  clucking  hen, 

She'll  lay  a  real  one,  laudably  deceived, 


252 


MR.    SLUDGE,    "THE   MEDIUM: 


Daily  for  weeks  to  come.    I've  told  my  lie, 
And  seen  truth  follow,  marvels  none  of  mine  ; 
All  was  not  cheating,  sir,  I'm  positive  ! 
I  don't  know  if  I  move  your  hand  sometimes 
"When  the  spontaneous  writing  spreads  so  far, 
If  my  knee  lifts  the  table  all  that  height, 
Why  the  inkstand  don't  fall  off  the  desk  a-tilt, 
"Why  the  accordion  plays  a  prettier  waltz 
Than  I  can  pick  out  on  the  piano-forte, 
"Why  I  speak  so  much  more  than  I  intend, 
Describe  so  many  things  I  never  saw. 
I  tell  you,  sir,  in  one  sense,  I  believe 
Nothing  at  all,  —that  everybody  can, 
"Will,  and  does  cheat :  but  in  another  sense 
I'm  ready  to  believe  my  very  self  — 
That  every  cheat's  inspired,  and  every  lie 
Quick  with  a  germ  of  truth. 

You  ask  perhaps 

"Why  I  should  condescend  to  trick  at  all 
If  I  know  a  way  without  it  ?    This  is  why  ! 
There's  a  strange,  secret,  sweet  self-sacrihce 
In  any  desecration  of  one's  soul 
To  a  worthy  end,  —  isn't  it  Herodotus 
(I  wish  I  could  read  Latin  !)  who  describes 
The  single  gift  o'  the  land's  virginity, 
Demanded  in  those  old  Egyptian  rites, 
(I've  but  a  hazy  notion  —  help  me,  sir  !) 
For  one  purpose  in  the  world,  one  day  in  a  life, 
One  hour  in  a  day  —  thereafter,  purity, 
And  a  veil  thrown  o'er  the  past  for  evermore  ! 
Well  now,  they  understood  a  many  things 
Down  by  Nile  city,  or  wherever  it  was  ! 
I've  always  vowed,  after  the  minute's  lie, 
And  the  end's  gain,  —  truth  should  be  mine  henceforth. 
This  goes  to  the  root  o'  the  matter,  sir,  —  this  plain 
Plump  fact :  accept  it,  and  unlock  with  it 
The  wards  of  many  a  puzzle  ! 

Or,  finally, 

Why  should  I  set  so  fine  a  gloss  on  things  ? 
What  need  I  care  ?    I  cheat  in  self-defence, 
And  there's  my  answer  to  a  world  of  cheats  ! 
Cheat  ?    To  be  sure,  sir  !    What's  the  world  worth  else  ? 
Who  takes  it  as  he  finds,  and  thanks  his  stars  ? 
Don't  it  want  trimming,  turning,  furbishing  up 
And  polishing  over?    Your  so-styled  great  men, 
Do  they  accept  one  truth  as  truth  is  found, 
Or  try  their  skill  at  tinkering  ?    What's  your  world  ? 
Here  are  you  born,  who  are,  I'll  say  at  once, 
Of  the  luckiest  whether  as  to  head  and  heart, 
Body  and  soul,  or  all  that  helps  the  same. 
Well,  now,  look  back  :  what  faculty  of  yours 
Came  to  its  full,  had  ample  justice  done 
By  growing  when  rain  fell,  hiding  its  time, 
Solidifying  growth  when  earth  was  dead, 
Spiring  up,  broadening  wide,  in  seasons  due  ? 
Never  !    You  shot  up  and  frost  nipped  you  off, 
Settled  to  sleep  when  sunshine  bade  you  sprout ; 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM." 


One  faculty  thwarted  its  fellow  :  at  the  end, 

All  you  boast  is,  "  I  had  proved  a  topping  tree 

In  other  climes  "  —  yet  this  was  the  right  clime 

Had  you  foreknown  the  seasons.    Young,  you've  force 

Wasted  like  well-streams  :  old,  —  oh,  then  indeed, 

Behold  a  labyrinth  of  hydraulic  pipes 

Through  which  you'd  play  off  wondrous  waterwork  ; 

Only,  no  water  left  to  feed  their  play. 

Young,  —  you've  a  hope,  an  aim,  a  love  ;  it's  tossed 

And  crossed  and  lost :  you  struggle  on,  some  spark 

Shut  in  your  heart  against  the  puffs  around, 

Through  cold  and  pain  ;  these  in  due  time  subside, 

Now  then  for  age's  triumph,  the  hoarded  light 

You  mean  to  loose  on  the  altered  face  of  things,  — 

Up  with  it  on  the  tripod  !    It's  extinct. 

Spend  your  life's  remnant  asking — which  was  best, 

Light  smothered  up  that  never  peeped  forth  once, 

Or  the  cold  cresset  with  full  leave  to  shine  ? 

Well,  accept  this  too,  —  seek  the  fruit  of  it 

Not  in  enjoyment,  proved  a  dream  on  earth, 

But  knowledge,  useful  for  a  second  chance, 

Another  life,  —you've  lost  this  world,  you've  gained 

Its  knowledge  for  the  next.  —    What  knowledge,  sir, 

Except  that  you  know  nothing  ?    Nay,  you  doubt 

Whether  'twere  better  have  been  made  man  or  brute, 

If  aught  is  true,  if  good  and  evil  clash. 

No  foul,  no  fair,  no  inside,  no  outside, 

There's  your  world  ! 

Give  it  me  !  I  slap  it  brisk 

With  harlequin's  pasteboard  sceptre  :  what's  it  now? 

Changed  like  a  rock-flat,  rough  with  rusty  weed, 

At  first  wash-over  o'  the  returning  wave  ! 

All  the  dry,  dead,  impracticable  stuff  , 

Starts  into  life  and  light  again  ;  this  world 

Pervaded  by  the  influx  from  the  next. 

I  cheat,  and  what's  the  happy  consequence  ? 

You  find  full  justice  straightway  dealt  you  out, 

Each  want  supplied,  each  ignorance  set  at  ease, 

Each  folly  fooled.    No  life-long  labor  now 

As  the  price  of  worse  than  nothing  !    No  mere  mm 

Holding  you  chained  in  iron,  as  it  seems, 

Against  the  outstretch  of  your  very  arms 

And  legs  i'  the  sunshine  moralists  forbid  ! 

What  would  you  have  ?    Just  speak  and,  there,  you  see  I 

You're  supplemented,  made  a  whole  at  last  : 

Bacon  advises,  Shakspeare  writes  you  songs, 

And  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  embraces  you. 

Thus  it  goes  on,  not  quite  like  life  perhaps, 

But  so  near,  that  the  very  difference  piques, 

Shows  that  e'en  better  than  this  best  will  be  - 

This  passing  entertainment  in  a  hut 

Whose  bare  walls  take  your  taste  — since,  one  stage  more, 

And  you  arrive  at  the  palace  :  all  half  real, 

And  you,  to  suit  it,  less  than  real  beside, 

In  a  dream,  lethargic  kind  of  death  in  life, 

That  helps  the  interchange  of  natures,  flesh 

Transfused  by  souls,  and  such  souls  !    Oh.  tis  choice  1 

And  if  at  whiles  the  bubble,  blown  too  thin, 


P      254 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM.' 


Seem  nigh  on  bursting,  —  if  you  nearly  see 

The  real  world  through  the  false,  —  what  do  you  see  ? 

Is  the  old  so  ruined  ?    You  rind  you're  in  a  flock 

O'  the  youthful,  earnest,  passionate  —  genius,  beauty, 

Rank  and  wealth  also,  if  you  care  for  these, 

And  all  depose  their  natural  rights,  hail  you 

(That's  me,  sir)  as  their  mate  and  yoke-fellow. 

Participate  in  Sludgehood  —  nay,  grow  mine, 

I  veritably  possess  them  —  banish  doubt, 

And  reticence  and  modesty  alike  ! 

Why,  here's  the  Golden  Age,  old  Paradise, 

Or  new  Eutopia  !    Here  is  life  indeed, 

And  the  world  well  won  now,  yours  for  the  first  time  J 

And  all  this  might  be,  may  be,  and  with  good  help 

Of  a  little  lying  shall  be  :  so,  Sludge  lies  ! 

"Why,  he's  at  worst  your  poet  who  sings  how  Greeks 

That  never  were,  in  Troy  which  never  was, 

Did  this  or  the  other  impossible  great  tiling  ! 

He's  Lowell  —  it's  a  world,  you  smile  and  say, 

Of  his  own  invention  —  wondrous  Longfellow, 

Surprising  Hawthorne  !     Sludge  does  more  than  they, 

And  acts  the  books  they  write  :  the  more  his  praise  ! 

But  why  do  I  mount  to  poets  ?    Take  plain  prose  — 

Dealers  in  common  sense,  set  these  at  work, 

"Wliat  can  they  do  without  their  helpful  lies? 

Each  states  the  law  and  fact  and  face  o'  the  thing 

Just  as  he'd  have  them,  finds  what  he  thinks  fit, 

Is  blind  to  what  missuits  him,  just  records 

What  makes  his  case  out,  quite  ignores  the  rest. 

It's  a  History  of  the  World,  the  Lizard  Age, 

The  Early  Indians,  the  Old  Country  War, 

Jerome  Napoleon,  whatsoever  you  please, 

All  as  the  author  wants  it.     Such  a  scribe 

You  pay  and  praise  for  putting  life  in  stones, 

Fire  into  fog,  making  the  past  your  world. 

There's  plenty  of  "  How  did  you  contrive  to  grasp 

The  thread  which  led  you  through  this  labyrinth  ? 

How  build  such  solid  fabric  out  of  air  ? 

How  on  so  slight  foundation  found  this  tale, 

Biography,  narrative  ?  "  or,  in  other  words, 

"  How  many  lies  did  it  require   o  make 

The  portly  truth  you  here  present  us  with  ?  "  — 

"  Oh  !  "  quoth  the  penman,  purring  at  your  praise, 

"  'Tis  fancy  all ;  no  particle  of  fact : 

I  was  poor  and  threadbare  when  I  wrote  that  book 

'  Bliss  in  the  Golden  City.'    I,  at  Thebes  ? 

We  writers  paint  out  of  our  heads,  you  see  !  " 

—  "  Ah,  the  more  wonderful  the  gift  in  you, 

The  more  creative  ness  and  godlike  craft !  " 

But  I,  do  I  present  you  with  my  piece, 

It's  "  What,  Sludge  ?    When  my  sainted  mother  spoke 

The  verses  Lady  Jane  Grey  last  composed 

About  the  rosy  bower  in  the  seventh  heaven 

Where  she  and  Queen  Elizabeth  keep  house,  — 

You  made  the  raps?    'Twas  your  invention  that? 

Cur,  slave,  and  devil !  "  —  eight  fingers  and  two  thumbs 

Stuck  in  my  throat? 


MR.   SLUDGE,    "THE  MEDIUM.' 


251 


Well,  if  the  marks  seein  gone, 
'Tis  because  stiffish  cock-tail,  taken  iii  time, 
Is  better  for  a  bruise  than  arnica. 
There,  sir  !  I  bear  no  malice  :  'tisn't  in  me. 
I  know  I  acted  wrongly  :  still,  I've  tried 
What  I  could  say  in  my  excuse,  —  to  show 
The  Devil's  not  all  devil  ...  I  don't  pretend, 
An  angel,  much  less  such  a  gentleman 
As  you,  sir  !    And  I've  lost  vou,  lost  myself, 
Lost  all,  1-1-1-  .  .  . 

No  —  are  you  in  earnest,  sir? 
Oh,  yours,  sir,  is  an  angel's  part !     I  know 
What  prejudice  prompts,  and  what's  the  common  course 
Men  take  to  soothe  their  ruffled  self-conceit : 
Only  you  rise  superior  to  it  all ! 
No,  sir,  it  don't  hurt  much  ;  it's  speaking  long 
That  makes  me  choke  a  little  :  the  marks  will  go  ! 
What  ?    Twenty  V-notes  more,  and  outfit  too, 
And  not  a  word  to  Greeley  ?    One  —  one  kiss 
O'  the  hand  that  saves  me  !    You'll  not  let  me  speak 
I  well  know,  and  I've  lost  the  right,  too  true  ! 
But  I  must  say,  sir,  if  She  hears  (she  does) 
Your  sainted  .  .  .  Well,  sir,  —  be  it  so  !    That's,  I  think, 
My  bed-room  candle.    Good-night !     Bl-1-less  you,  sir  ! 


R-r-r,  you  brute-beast  and  blackguard  !    Cowardly  scamp ! 

I  only  wish  I  dared  burn  down  the  house 

And  spoil  your  sniggering  !    Oh  !  what,  you're  the  man? 

You're  satisfied  at  last  ?    You've  found  out  Sludge  ? 

We'll  see  that  presently  :  my  turn,  sir,  next ! 

I  too  can  tell  my  story  :  brute,  —  do  you  hear  ?  — 

You  throttled  your  sainted  mother,  that  old  hag, 

In  just  such  a  fit  of  passion  :  no,  it  was  .  .  . 

To  get  this  house  of  hers,  and  many  a  note 

Like  these  .  .  .  I'll  pocket  them,  however  .  .  .  five, 

Ten,  fifteen  .  .  .  ay,  you  gave  her  throat  the  twist, 

Or  else  you  poisoned  her  !     Confound  the  cuss  ! 

Where  was  my  head  ?    I  ought  to  have  prophesied 

He'll  die  in  a  year  and  join  her  :  that's  the  way. 

I  don't  know  where  my  head  is  :  what  had  I  done  ? 

How  did  it  all  go  ?    I  said  he  poisoned  her, 

And  hoped  he'd  have  grace  given  him  to  repent, 

Whereon  he  picked  this  quarrel,  bullied  me, 

And  called  me  cheat :  I  thrashed  him,  —  who  could  help? 

He  howled  for  mercy,  prayed  me  on  his  knees 

To  cut  and  run  and  save  him  from  disgrace  : 

I  do  so,  and  once  off,  he  slanders  me. 

An  end  of  him.     Begin  elsewhere  anew ! 

Boston's  a  hole,  the  herring-pond  is  wide, 

V-notes  are  something,  liberty  still  more. 

Beside,  is  he  the  only  fool  in  the  world  ? 


256 


THE  BOY  AND    THE   ANGEL. 


THE  BOY  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

MORNING,  evening,  noon,  and  night, 
"  Praise  God  !  "  sang  Theocrite. 

Then  to  his  poor  trade  he  turned, 
Whereby  the  daily  meal  was  earned. 

Hard  he  labored,  long  and  well  : 
O'er  his  work  the  boy's  curls  fell. 

But  ever,  at  each  period, 

He  stopped  and  sang,  "  Praise  God  !  " 

Then  back  again  his  curls  he  threw, 
And  cheerful  turned  to  work  anew. 

Said    Blaise,    the    listening     monk, 

"  Well  done  ; 
I  doubt  not  thou  art  heard,  my  son, 

"  As  well  as  if  thy  voice  to-day 
Were  praising  God,  the  Pope's  great 
way. 

"  This  Easter  Day,  the  Pope  at  Rome 
Praises  God  from  Peter's  dome." 

Said  Theocrite,  "  Would  God  that  I 
Might  praise  him,  that  great  way,  and 
die  !  " 

Night  passed,  day  shone  ; 
And  Theocrite  was  gone. 

With  God  a  day  endures  alway  : 
A  thousand  years  are  but  a  day. 

God  said  in  heaven,  "Nor  day  nor 

night 
Now  brings  the  voice  of  my  delight." 

Then  Gabriel,  like  a  rainbow's  birth, 
Spread  his  wings  and  sank  to  earth  ; 

Entered,  in  flesh,  the  empty  cell, 
Lived  there,  and  played  the  craftsman 
well  ; 

And    morning,    evening,    noon,  and 

night, 
Praised  God  in  place  of  Theocrite. 

And  from  a  boy,  to  youth  he  grew  ; 
The  man  put  off  the  stripling's  hue  ; 

The  man  matured  and  fell  away 
Into  the  season  of  decay  ; 


And  ever  o'er  the  trade  he  bent, 
And  ever  lived  on  earth  content. 

(He  did  God's  will ;  to  him,  all  one 
If  on  the  earth  or  in  the  sun.) 

God  said,  "  A  praise  is  in  mine  ear  ; 
There  is  no  doubt  in  it,  no  fear  : 

"  So  sing  old  worlds,  and  so 
New  worlds  that  from  my  footstool 
go- 

"  Clearer  loves  sound  other  ways  : 
I  miss  my  little  human  praise. 

Then  forth  sprang  Gabriel's  wings,  off 

fell 
The  flesh  disguise,  remained  the  cell. 

'Twas  Easter  Day  :  he  flew  to  Rome, 
And  paused  above  Saint  Peter's  dome. 

In  the  tiring-room  close  by 
The  great  outer  gallery, 

With  his  holy  vestments  dight, 
Stood  the  new  Pope,  Theocrite  : 

And  all  his  past  career 
Came  back  upon  him  clear, 

Since  when,  a  boy,  he  plied  his  trade, 
Till  on  his  life  the  sickness  weighed  ; 

And  in  his  cell,  when  death  drew  near, 
An  angel  in  a  dream  brought  cheer  : 

And  rising  from  the  sickness  drear 
He  grew  a  priest,  and  now  stood  here. 

To  the  East  with  praise  he  turned, 
And  on  his  sight  the  angel  burned. 

"  I  bore  thee  from  thy  craftsman's  cell, 
And  set  thee  here  :  I  did  not  well. 

"  Vainly  I  left  my  angel-sphere, 
Vain  was  thy  dream  of  many  a  year. 

"  Thy  voice's  praise  seemed  weak  :  it 

dropped  — 
Creation's  chorus  stopped  ! 

"  Go  back  and  praise  again 
The  early  way,  while  I  remain. 

"  With  that  weak  voice  of  our  disdain 
Take  up  creation's  pausing  strain. 


"  Said  Blaise,  the  listening  monk,  '  Well  done ; 
I  doubt -not  thou  art  heard,  my  son.'"  —  Page  256. 


A   DEATH  IN   THE  DESERT. 


257 


"  Back  to  the  cell  and  poor  employ  : 
Resume  the  craftsman  and  the  boy  ! ' ' 

Theocrite  grew  old  at  home  : 

A  new  Pope  dwelt  in  Peter's  dome. 

One  vanished  as  the  other  died  : 
They  sought  God  side  by  side. 


A   DEATH   IN   THE  DESERT. 

[SUPPOSED  of  Pamphylax  the  Antio- 
chene  : 

It  is  a  parchment,  of  my  rolls  the 
fifth, 

Hath  three  skins  glued  together,  is 
all  Greek, 

And  goeth  from  Epsilon  down  to  Mu  : 

Lies  second  in  the  surnamed  Chosen 
Chest, 

Stained  and  conserved  with  juice  of 
terebinth, 

Covered  with  cloth  of  hair,  and  let- 
tered Xi, 

From  Xanthus,  my  wife's  uncle,  now 
at  peace  : 

Mu  and  Epsilon  stand  for  my  own 
name, 

I  may  not  write  it,  but  I  make  a  cross 

To  show  I  wait  His  coming,  with  the 
rest, 

And  leave  off  here  :  beginneth  Pam- 
phylax.] 

I  said,  "  If  one  should  wet  his  lips 

with  wine, 
And  slip  the  broadest  plantain-leaf 

we  find, 

Or  else  the  lappet  of  a  linen  robe, 
Into  the  water-vessel,  lay  it  right, 
And  cool  his  forehead  just  above  the 

eyes, 
The  while  a  brother,  kneeling  either 

side, 
Should  chafe  each  hand  and  try  to 

make  it  warm,  — 
He  is  not  so  far  gone  but  he  might 

speak." 

This  did  not  happen  in  the  outer  cave, 
Nor  in  the  secret  chamber  of  the  rock, 
Where,  sixty  days  since  the  decree 

was  out, 
We  had  him,  bedded  on  a  camel-skin, 


And  waited  for  his  dying  all  the  while ; 
But  in  the  midmost  grotto :  since 

noon's  light 
Beached  there  a  little,  and  we  would 

not  lose 
The  last  of  what  might  happen  on 

his  face. 

I  at  the  head,  and  Xanthus  at  the 

feet, 
With  Valens  and  the  Boy,  had  lifted 

him, 
And  brought  him  from  the  chamber 

in  the  depths, 
And  laid  him  in  the  light  where  we 

might  see  : 
For  certain  smiles  began  about  his 

mouth, 
And  his  lids  moved,  presagef ul  of  the 

end. 

Beyond,  and  half  way  up  the  mouth 

o'  the  cave, 
The    Bactrian    convert,   having   his 

desire, 
Kept  watch,  and  made  pretence  to 

graze  a  goat 
That  gave  us  milk,  on  rags  of  various 

herb, 
Plantain  and  quitch,  the  rocks'  shade 

keeps  alive  : 

So  that  if  any  thief  or  soldier  passed 
(Because  the  persecution  was  aware), 
Yielding  the  goat  up  promptly  with 

his  life. 
Such  man  might  pass  on,  joyful  at  a 

prize, 
Nor  care  to  pry  into  the  cool  o'  the 

cave. 
Outside  was  all  noon  and  the  burning 

blue. 

"Here  is  wine,"  answered  Xanthus, 

—  dropped  a  drop  ; 

I  stooped  and  placed  the  lap  of  cloth 

aright, 
Then  chafed  his  right  hand,  and  the 

Boy  his  left : 
But  Valens  had  bethought  him,  and 

produced 
And  broke  a  ball  of  nard,  and  made 

perfume. 
Only,  he  did  —  not  so  much  wake,  as 

—  turn 

And  smile  a  little,  as  a  sleeper  does 
If  any  dear  one  call  him,  touch  his 

face  — 
And  smiles  and  loves,  but  will  not  b« 

disturbed. 


258 


A   DEATH  IN   THE   DESERT. 


Then  Xanthus  said  a  prayer,  but  still 

he  slept  : 
It  is  the  Xanthus  that  escaped   to 

Rome, 
Was  burned,  and  could  not  write  the 

chronicle. 

Then  the  Boy  sprang  up  from  his 

knees,  and  ran, 
Stung  by  the  splendor  of  a  sudden 

thought, 
And   fetched    the    seventh    plate    of 

graven  lead 
Out  of  the  secret  chamber,  found  a 

place, 
Pressing  with  finger  on  the  deeper 

dints, 
And  spoke,  as  'twere  his  mouth  pro- 

claiming first 
"  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 

Whereat  he  opened  his  eyes  wide  #t 

once, 
And  sat  up  of  himself,  and  looked  at 

us  ; 
And  thenceforth  nobody  pronounced 

a  word  : 
Only,  outside,  the  Bactrian  cried  his 

cry 
Like  the  lone  desert-bird  that  wears 

the  ruff, 
As  signal  we  were  safe,  from  time  to 


First  he  said,  "If  a  friend  declared 

to  me, 
This  my  son  Valens,  this  my  other 

son, 
Were   James   and  Peter,  —  nay,  de- 

clared as  well 
This  lad  was  very  John,  —  I  could 

believe  ! 
—  Could,  for  a  moment,  doubtlessly 

believe  : 
So   is   myself    withdrawn    into   my 

depths, 
The  soul  retreated  from  the  perished 

brain 
Whence  it  was  wont  to  feel  and  use 

the  world 
Through  these  dull  members,  done 

with  long  ago. 

•  Yet  I  myself  remain  ;  I  feel  myself  : 
And  there  is  nothing  <ost.    Let  be, 

a  while  !  " 

[This  is  the  doctrine  he  was  wont  to 
teach. 


How  divers  persons  witness  in  each 

man, 
Three  souls  which  make  up  one  soul  : 

first,  to  wit, 
A  soul  of  each  and  all  the  bodily 

parts, 
Seated  therein,  which  works,  and  is 

what  Does, 
And  has  the  use  of  earth,  and  ends 

the  man 
Downward  :  but,  tending  upward  for 

advice, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 
By  the  next  soul,  which,  seated  in 

the  brain, 

Useth  the  first  with  its  collected  use, 
And    feeleth,  thinketh,  willeth, — is 

what  Knows  : 
Which,  duly  tending  upward  in  its 

turn, 

Grows  into,  and  again  is  grown  into 
By  the  last  soul,  that  uses  both  the 

first, 

Subsisting  whether  they  assist  or  no, 
And,  constituting  man's  self,  is  what 

Is  — 
And  leans  upon  the  former,  makes 

it  play, 
As  that  played  off   the    first :    and, 

tending  up, 
Holds,  is  upheld  by,  God,  and  ends 

the  man 

Upward  in  that  dread  point  of  inter- 
course, 
Nor  needs  a  place,  for  it  returns  to 

Him. 
What  Does,  what  Knows,  what  Is  ; 

three  souls,  one  man. 
I  give  the  glossa  of  Theotypas.] 

And  then,  "  A  stick,  once  fire  from 

end  to  end  ; 
Now,  ashes  save  the  tip  that  holds  a 

spark ! 
Yet,  blow  the  spark,  it  runs  back, 

spreads  itself 
A  little  where  the  fire  was :  thus  I 

urge 
The  soul  that  served  me,  till  it  task 

once  more 
What  ashes  of  my  brain  have  kept 

their  shape, 
And  these  make  effort  on  the  last  o' 

the  flesh, 
Trying  to  taste  again  the   truth    of 

things"  — 
(He  smiled)— "their  very  superficial 

truth  ; 
As  that  ye  are  my  sons,  that  it  is  long 


A    DEATH  IN   THE   DESERT. 


25? 


Since  James  and  Peter  had  release 
by  death, 

And  I  am  only  he,  your  brother  John, 

"Who  saw  and  heard,  and  could  re- 
member all. 

Remember  all !    It  is  not  much  to  say. 

What  if  the  truth  broke  on  me  from 
above 

As  once  and  ofttirnes?  Such  might 
hap  again  : 

Doubtlessly  He  might  stand  in  pres- 
ence here, 

With  head  wool-white,  eyes,  flame, 
and  feet  like  brass, 

The  sword  and  the  seven  stars,  as  I 
have  seen  — 

I  who  now  shudder  only  and  surmise 

'  How  did  your  brother  bear  that  sight 
and  live  ? ' 

"  If  I  live  yet,  it  is  for  good,  more  love 
Through  me  to  men  :  be  naught  but 

ashes  here 
That  keep  a  while  my  semblance,  who 

was  John,  — 
Still,  when  they  scatter,  there  is  left 

on  earth 

No  one  alive  who  knew  (considerthis!) 
—  Saw  with    his   eyes    and   handled 

with  his  hands 
That  which  was  from  the  first,  the 

Word  of  Life. 
How  will  it  be  when  none  more  saith 

'  I  saw '  ? 

"  Such  ever  was  love's  way  :  to  rise,  it 
stoops. 

Since  I,  whom  Christ's  mouth  taught, 
was  bidden  teach, 

I  went,  for  many  years,  about  the 
world, 

Saying,  '  It  was  so;  so  I  heard  and 
saw,' 

Speaking  as  the  case  asked:  and  men 
believed. 

Afterward  came  the  message  to  my- 
self 

In  Patmos  isle  ;  I  was  not  bidden 
teach, 

But  simply  listen,  take  a  book  and 
write, 

Nor  set  down  other  than  the  given 
word, 

With  nothing  left  to  my  arbitrament 

To  choose  or  change  :  I  wrote,  and 
men  believed. 

Then,  for  my  time  grew  brief,  no  mes- 
sage more, 

No  call  to  write  again,  I  found  a  way, 


And,  reasoning  from  my  knowledge, 

merely  taught 
Men  should,  for  love's  sake,  in  love's 

strength,  believe  ; 
Or  I  would  pen  a  letter  to  a  friend 
And  urge  the  same  as  friend,  nor  less 

nor  more  : 
Friends  said  I  reasoned  rightly,  and 

believed. 
But  at  the  last,  why,  I  seemed  left 

alive 
Like    a  sea-jelly    weak    on    Patmos 

strand , 
To  tell  dry  sea-beach  gazers  how  I 

fared 
When  there  was    mid-sea,  and    the 

mighty  things  ; 
Left  to  repeat,   '  I  saw,  I    heard,  I 

knew,' 

And  go  all  over  the  old  ground  again, 
With  Antichrist  already  in  the  world, 
And  many  Antichrists,  who  answered 

prompt 

'  Am  I  not  Jaspar  as  thyself  art  John  ? 
Nay,  young,  whereas  through  age  thou 

mayest  forget : 
Wherefore,  explain,  or  how  shall  we 

believe  'i 
I  never  thought  to  call  down  fire  on 

such, 

Or,  as  in  wonderful  and  early  days, 
Pick  up  the  scorpion ,  tread  the  serpent 

dumb  ; 
But  patient  stated  much  of  the  Lord's 

life 
Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it 

work  : 
Since  much  that  at  the  first,  in  deed 

and  word, 

Lay  simply  and  sufficiently  exposed, 
Had  grown  (or  else  my  soul  was  grown 

to  match, 
Fed  through  such  years,  familiar  with 

such  light, 
Guarded  and  guided  still  to  see  and 

speak) 

Of  new  significance  and  fresh  result ; 
What  first  were  guessed  as  points,  I 

now  knew  stars, 
And  named  them  in  the  Gospel  I  hava 

writ. 
For   men   said,    '  It   is    getting   long 

ago  : ' 
'  Where  is  the  promise  of  His  coming  ? ' 

—  asked 
These  young  ones  in  their  strength,  as 

loth  to  wait, 
Of  me  who,  when  their  sires  were 

born,  was  old. 


260 


A   DEATH  IN   THE   DESERT. 


I,  for  I  loved  them,  answered,  joy- 
fully, 
Since  I  was  there,  and  helpful  in  my 

age  ; 
And,  in  the  main,  I  think  such  men 

believed. 

Finally,  thus  endeavoring,  I  fell  sick, 
Ye  brought  me  here,  and  I  supposed 

the  end, 
And  went  to  sleep  with  one  thought 

that,  at  least, 
Though  the  whole  earth  should  lie  in 

wickedness, 
We  had  the  truth,  might  leave  the 

rest  to  God. 

Yet  now  I  wake  in  such  decrepitude 
As  I  had  slidden  down  and  fallen 

afar, 
Past  even  the  presence  of  my  former 

self, 
Grasping  the  while  for  stay  at  facts 

which  snap, 
Till  I  am  found  away  from  my  own 

world. 
Feeling  for  foot-hold  through  a  blank 

profound, 
Along  with  unborn  people  in  strange 

lands, 
Who  say  —  I  hear  said  or  conceive 

they  say  — 
'  Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he 

saw  ? 
Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might 

see  ! ' 

"  And  how  shall  I  assure  them  ?   Can 

they  share 
—  They,  who  have   flesh,  a  veil    of 

youth  and  strength 
About  each  spirit,  that  needs  must 

bide  its  time, 
Living  and  learning    still    as    years 

assist 
Which  wear  the  thickness  thin,  and 

let  man  see  — 
With  me  who  hardly  am  withheld  at 

all, 

But  shudderingly,  scarce  a  shred  be- 
tween, 
Lie  bare   to  the  universal    prick  of 

light  ? 
Is  it  for  nothing  we  grow  old  and 

weak, 
We  whom  God  loves?    When   pain 

ends,  gain  ends  too. 
To  me,  tliat  story  —  ay,  that  Life  and 

Death 
Of  which  I  wrote  '  it  was '  —  to  me,  it 

is: 


—  Is,  here    and  now :    I    apprehend 

naught  else. 
Is  not  God  now  i'  the  world  his  power 

first  made  ? 

Is  not  his  love  at  issue  still  with  sin, 
Visibly  when  a  wrong    is  done    on 

earth  ? 
Love,  wrong,  and  pain,  what  see  I  else 

around  ? 

Yea,  and  the  Resurrection  and  Uprise 
To  the  right  hand  of  the  throne  —  what 

is  it  beside, 
When   such  truth,  breaking  bounds, 

o'erfloods  my  soul, 
And,  as  I  saw  the  sin  and  death,  even 

so 

See  I  the  need  yet  transiency  of  both, 
The  good    and    glory    consummated 

thence  ? 
I  saw  the  Power  ;  I  see  the  Love,  once 

weak, 
Resume  the  Power  :  and  in  this  word 

'  I  see,' 
Lo,  there  is  recognized  the  Spirit  of 

both 
That  moving  o'er  the  spirit  of  man, 

unblinds 
His  eye  and  bids  him   look.    These 

are,  I  see  ; 
But  ye,  the  children,  his  beloved  ones 

too, 
Ye  need,  —  as  I  should  use  an  optic 

glass 
I  wondered  at  erewhile,  somewhere  i" 

the  world, 
It  had  been  given  a  crafty  smith  to 

make  ; 
A  tube,  he  turned  on  objects  brought 

too  close, 

Lying  confusedly  insubordinate 
For    the    unassisted    eye   to    master 

once  : 
Look  through  his  tube,  at  distance 

now  they  lay, 
Become  succinct,  distinct,  so  small, 

so  clear  ! 
Just  thus,  ye  needs  must  apprehend 

what  truth 

I  see,  reduced  to  plain  historic  fact, 
Diminished  into  clearness,  proved  a 

point 
And  far  away  :  ye  would  withdraw 

your  sense 
From    out    eternity,    strain    it   upon 

time, 
Then  stand  before  that  fact,  that  Life 

and  Death, 
Stay  there  at  gaze,  till  it  dispart,  dis- 

pread, 


A   DEATH  IN   THE  DESERT. 


261 


As  though  a  star  should  open  out,  all 

sides, 
Grow  the  world  on  you,  as  it  is  my 

world. 

"  For  life.with  all  it  yields  of  joy  and 

woe, 
And  hope  and  fear,  —  believe  the  aged 

friend,  — 
Is    just   our    chance   o'  the   prize   of 

learning  love, 

How  love  might  be,  hath  been   in- 
deed, and  is  ; 
And  that  we  hold  thenceforth  to  the 

uttermost 
Such   prize  despite  the  envy  of  the 

world, 
And,  having  gained  truth,  keep  truth  : 

that  is  all. 
But  see  the  double  way  wherein  we 

are  led. 
How  the  soul  learns  diversely  from 

the  flesh  ! 
With  flesh,  that  hath  so  little  time  to 

stay, 
And   yields  mere  basement   for  the 

soul's  emprize, 
Expect     prompt     teaching.    Helpful 

was  the  light, 
And  warmth  was  cherishing  and  food 

was  choice 
To  every  man's  flesh,  thousand  years 

ago, 
As  now  to  yours  and  mine  ;  the  body 

sprang 
At  once    to   the  height,    and    staid  : 

but  the  soul,  —  no  ! 
Since  sages  who,  this  noontide,  medi- 
tate 
In  Rome  or  Athens,  may  descry  some 

point 

Of  the  eternal  power,  hid  yestereve  : 
And,  as  thereby  the  power's  whole 

mass  extends, 
So  much  extends  the  ether  floating 

o'er 
The  love  that  tops  the   might,    the 

Christ  in  God. 
Then,  as  new  lessons  shall  be  learned 

in  these 
Till   earth's   work   stop   and   useless 

time  run  out, 

So  duly,  daily,  needs  provision  be 
For  keeping  the  soul's  prowess  pos- 
sible, 

Building  new  barriers  as  the  old  de- 
cay, 
Saving    us    from    evasion    of    life's 

proof, 


Putting  the  question  ever,  '  Does  God 

love, 
And  will  ye  hold  that  truth  against 

the  world  ? ' 
Ye  know  there  needs  no  second  proof 

with  good 
Gained  for  our  flesh  from  any  earthly 

source : 
We  might  go  freezing,  ages,  —  give  us 

fire, 
Thereafter  we  judge  fire  at  its  full 

worth, 
And   guard   it    safe   through    every 

chance,  ye  know  ! 
That  fable    of  Prometheus   and   his 

theft, 
How    mortals    gained     Jove's   fiery 

flower,  grows  old 
(I  have  been  used  to  hear  the  pagans 

own) 
And  out  of  mind  ;  but  fire,  howe'er 

its  birth, 

Here  is  it,  precious  to  the  sophist  now 
Who  laughs  the  myth  of  ^Eschylus  to 

scorn, 
As   precious  to  those  satyrs   of   his 

play, 
Who  touched  it  in  gay  wonder  At  the 

thing. 
While  were  it  so  with   the   soul, — 

this  gift  of  truth 
Once  grasped,  were   this   our  soul's 

gain  safe,  and  sure 
To   prosper   as   the   body's   gain    is 

wont,  — 

Why,    man's    probation   would  con- 
clude, his  earth 
Crumble  ;   for  he  both  reasons   and 

decides, 
Weighs  first,  then  chooses  :  will  he 

give  up  fire 
For  gold  or  purple  once  he  knows  its 

worth  ? 
Could  he  give  Christ  up  were   His 

worth  as  plain  ? 
Therefore,  I   say,  to  test  man,  the 

proofs  shift, 
Nor  may  he  grasp  that  fact  like  other 

fact, 

And  straightway  in  his  life  acknowl- 
edge it, 

As,  say,  the  indubitable  bliss  of  fire. 
Sigh  ye,  '  It  had  been  easier  once  than 

now  ?' 

To  give  you  answer  I  am  left  alive  ; 
Look  at  me  who  was  present  from  the 

first ! 
Ye  know  what  things  I  saw  ;  then 

came  a  test, 


262 


A   DEATH  IN   THE   DESERT. 


My  first,  befitting   me  who   so   had 

seen  : 

'  Forsake  the  Christ  thou  sawest  trans- 
figured, Him 
Who  trod  the  sea  and  brought  the 

dead  to  life  ? 
"What  should  wring  this  from  thee  ?  ' 

—  ye  laugh  and  ask. 
What  wrung  it  ?    Even  a  torchlight 

and  a  noise, 
The   sudden    Roman    faces,    violent 

hands, 
And  fear  of  what  the  Jews  might  do  ! 

Just  that, 
And   it   is    written,  '  I   forsook   and 

fled  :' 
There  was   my  trial,   and  it  ended 

thus. 
Ay,  but  my  soul  had  gained  its  truth, 

could  grow  : 
Another  year  or  two,  —  what   little 

child, 
What  tender  woman  that  had  seen  no 

least 
Of  all  my  sights,  but  barely  heard 

them  told, 
Who  did  not  clasp  the  cross  with  a 

light  laugh, 
Or   wrap   the    burning  robe   round, 

thanking  God  ? 
Well,  was  truth  safe  forever,  then? 

Not  so. 

Already  had  begun  the  silent  work 
Whereby  truth,  deadened  of  its  abso- 
lute blaze, 
Might  need  love's  eye  to  pierce  the 

o'erstretched  doubt. 
Teachers  were  busy,  whispering  '  All 

is  true 
As  the  aged  ones  report ;  but  youth 

can  reach 
Where  age  gropes  dimly,  weak  with 

stir  and  strain, 

And  the  full  doctrine  slumbers  till  to- 
day.' 
Thus,    what    the   Roman's    lowered 

spear  was  found, 
A  bar  to  me  who  touched  and  handled 

truth, 
Now  proved  the  glozing  of  some  new 

shrewd  tongue, 
This  Ebion,  this  Cerinthus  or  their 

mates, 
Till  imminent  was  the  outcry  '  Save 

our  Christ ! ' 
Whereon  I  stated  much  of  the  Lord's 

life 
Forgotten  or  misdelivered,  and  let  it 

work. 


Such  work  done,  as  it  will  be,  what 

comes  next? 
What  do  I  hear  say,  or  conceive  men 

say, 
'  Was  John  at  all,  and  did  he  say  he 

saw  ? 
Assure  us,  ere  we  ask  what  he  might 

see  ! ' 

"  Is  this  indeed  a  burthen  for  late 

days, 
And  may  I  help  to  bear  it  with  you 

all, 
Using  my  weakness  which  becomes 

your  strength  ? 
For  if  a  babe  were  born  inside  this 

grot, 
Grew  to  a  boy  here,  heard  us  praise 

the  sun, 
Yet   had    but  yon   sole   glimmer   in 

light's  place, — 
One  loving  him  and  wishful  he  should 

learn, 
Would    much    rejoice    himself    was 

blinded  first 
Month  by  month  here,  so  made  to 

understand 
How  eyes,  born  darkling,  apprehend 

amiss  : 
I  think  I  could  explain  to  such  a 

child 
There  was  more  glow  outside  than 

gleams  he  caught, 

Ay,  nor  need  urge  '  I  saw  it,  so  be- 
lieve ! ' 

It  is  a  heavy  burthen  you  shall  bear 
In   latter    days,    new    lands,  or    old 

grown  strange, 
Left  without  me,  which  must  be  very 

soon. 
What    is    the   doubt,   my    brothers? 

Quick  with  it ! 
I  see  you  stand  conversing,  each  new 

face, 
Either  in  fields,  of  yellow  summer 

eves, 

On  islets  yet  unnamed  amid  the  sea  ; 
Or  pace  for  shelter  'neath  a  portico 
Out  of  the  crowd  in  some  enormous 

town 

Where  now  the  larks  sing  in  a  soli- 
tude ; 
Or  muse  upon  blank  heaps  of  stone 

and  sand 

Idly  conjectured  to  be  Ephesus  : 
And    no    one    asks    his    fellow    any 

more 

'  Where  is  the  promise  of  His  com- 
ing?' but 


A   DEATH  IN   THE  DESERT. 


263 


Was   He   revealed   in  any   of   His 

lives, 

As  Power,  as  Love,  as  Influencing 
Soul ? ' 

"  Quick,    for   time   presses,  tell   the 

whole  mind  out, 
And  let  us  ask  and  answer  and  be 

saved ! 
My  book  speaks  on,  because  it  cannot 

pass  ; 
One   listens   quietly,  nor  scoffs   but 

pleads 
'  Here  is  a  tale  of  things  done  ages 

since  : 
"What  truth  was  ever  told  the  second 

day? 
Wonders,  that  would  prove  doctrine, 

go  for  naught. 
Remains  the  doctrine,  love  ;  well,  we 

must  love. 
And  what  we  love  most,  power  and 

love  in  one, 
Let   us   acknowledge  on  the  record 

here, 
Accepting    these    in    Christ :    must 

Christ  then  be  ? 
Has  He  been  ?    Did  not  we  ourselves 

make  Him  ? 
Our  mind  receives  but  what  it  holds, 

no  more. 

First  of  the  love,  then  ;  we  acknowl- 
edge Christ  — 
A  proof  we  comprehend  His  love,  a 

proof 

We   had  such  love  already  in  our- 
selves, 
Knew  first  what  else  we  should  not 

recognize. 

'Tis  mere  projection  from  man's  in- 
most mind, 

And,  what  he  loves,  thus  falls   re- 
flected back, 
Becomes  accounted  somewhat  out  oi 

him  ; 
He  throws  it  up  in  air,  it  drops  down 

earth's, 
With  shape,  name,  story  added,  man' 

old  way. 
How  prove  you  Christ  came  otherwise 

at  least  ? 
Next  try  the  power  :   He  made  and 

rules  the  world  : 
Certes  there  is  a  world  once  made 

now  ruled, 
Unless  things  have  been  ever  as  we 

SCG. 

Our    sires    declared    a    charioteer' 
yoked  steeds 


Brought  the  sun  up  the  east  and  down 

the  west, 

Which  only  of  itself  now  rises,  sets, 
A.S  if  a  hand  impelled  it  and  a  will,  — 
Thus   they  long  thought,  they  who 

had  will  and  hands  : 
But    the   new  question's  whisper  ia 

distinct, 
Wherefore  must  all  force  needs  be 

like  ourselves  ? 
We  have  the  hands,  the  will ;  what 

made  and  drives 
The  sun  is  force,  is  law,  is  named,  not 

known, 
While  will  and  love  we  do  know ; 

marks  of  these, 
Eye-witnesses   attest,   so   books   de- 
clare — 

As  that,  to  punish  or  reward  our  race, 
The  sun  at  undue  times  arose  or  set 
Or  else  stood  still :  what  do  not  men 

affirm? 

But  earth  requires  as  urgently  reward 
Or  punishment  to-day  as  years  ago, 
And  none  expects  the  sun  will  inter- 
pose : 
Therefore  it  was  mere  passion  and 

mistake, 
Or  erring  zeal  for  right,  which  changed 

the  truth. 
Go  back,  far,  farther,  to  the  birth  of 

things  ; 
Ever  the  will,  the  intelligence,  the 

love, 
Man's  !  —  which  he  gives,  supposing 

he  but  finds, 
As  late  he  gave  head,  body,  hands, 

and  feet, 
To  help  these  in  what  forms  he  called 

his  gods. 
First,  Jove's  brow,  Juno's  eyes  were 

swept  away, 

But  Jovefs  wrath,  Juno's  pride  con- 
tinued long ; 
As  last,  will,  power,  and  love  dis 

carded  these, 
So  law  in  turn  discards  power,  love, 

and  will. 
What   proveth  God  is  otherwise  at 

.     least?  . 

All  else,  projection  from  the  mind  of 

man  ! ' 
Nay,  do  not  give  me  wine,  for  I  am 

strong, 
But  place  my  gospel  where  I  put  my 

hands. 

"  I  say  that  man  was  made  to  grow, 
not  stop ; 


264 


A   DEATH  IN   THE   DESERT. 


That  help,  he  needed  once,  and  needs 

no  more, 
Having   grown    but    an  inch  by,  is 

withdrawn  : 
For  he  hath   new  needs,  and   new 

helps  to  these. 
This    imports    solely,    man    should 

mount  on  each 

New  height  in  view  ;  the  help  where- 
by he  mounts, 
The  ladder-rune  his  foot  has  left,  may 

fall, 
Since  all  things  suffer  change  save 

God  the  Truth. 
Man  apprehends  Him  newly  at  each 

stage 

Whereat  earth's  ladder  drops,  its  ser- 
vice done  ; 
A.nd  nothing  shall  prove  twice  what 

once  was  proved. 
You  stick  a  garden-plot  with  ordered 

twigs 
To  show  inside  lie  germs   of  herbs 

unborn. 
And  check  the  careless  step  would 

spoil  their  birth  ; 
But  when  herbs  wave,  the  guardian 

twigs  may  go, 
Since    should    ye    doubt   of   virtues, 

question  kinds, 

It  is  no  longer  for  old  twigs  ye  look, 
Which  proved  once  underneath  lay 

store  of  seed, 
But  to  the  herb's  self,  by  what  light 

ye  boast, 
For    what    fruit's    signs    are.    This 

book's  fruit  is  plain, 
Nor  miracles  need  prove  it  any  more. 
Doth  the  fruit  show  ?    Then  miracles 

bade  'ware 
At  first  of  root  and  stem,  saved  both 

till  now 
From  trampling  ox,  rough  boar,  and 

wanton  goat. 
What  ?    Was  man  made  a  wheelwork 

to  wind  up, 
And    be    discharged,    and     straight 

wound  up  anew  ? 
No  !  —  grown,     his      growth     lasts  ; 

taught,  he  ne'er  forgets  : 
May   learn   a   thousand    things,    not 

twice  the  same. 
This  might  be  pagan  teaching :  now 

hear  mine. 

"  I  say,  that  as  the  babe,  you  feed  a 
while, 

Becomes  a  boy  and  fit  to  feed  him- 
self, 


So,  minds  at  first  must  be  spoon-fed 

with  truth  : 
When  they  can  eat,  babe's  nurture  is 

withdrawn. 
I  fed  the  babe  whether  it  would  or 

no : 

I  bid  the  boy  or  feed  himself  or  starve. 
I  cried  once,  '  That  ye  may  believe  in 

Christ, 
Behold  this  blind  man  shall  receive 

his  sight ! ' 
I  cry  now,  '  Urgest  thou,  for  I  am 

shrewd, 
And  smile  at  stories  how  John's  word 

could  cure  — 

Repeat  that  miracle  and  take  my  faith  ? ' 
I  say,  that  miracle  was  duly  "wrought 
When,  save  for  it,  no  faith  was  possi- 
ble. 
Whether  a  change  were  wrought  i' 

the  shows  o'  the  world. 
Whether  the  change  came  from  our 

minds  which  see 
Of  shows  o'  the  world  so  much  as 

and  no  more 
Than   God  wills  for  His  purpose,— 

(what  do  I 
See  now,  suppose  you,  there  where 

you  see  rock 
Round  us  ?)  —  I  know  not ;  such  was 

the  effect, 
So   faith   grew,   making   void   more 

miracles 

Because  too  much  :  they  would  com- 
pel, not  help. 
I  say,  the  acknowledgment  of  God  in 

Christ 
Accepted  by  thy  reason,  solves  for 

thee 
All  questions  in  the  earth  and  out  of 

it, 
And  has  so  far  advanced  thee  to  be 

wise. 

Wouldst    thou    unprove   this   to   re- 
prove the  proved  ? 
In  life's  mere  minute,  with  power  to 

iise  that  proof, 
Leave  knowledge  and  revert  to  how 

it  sprung? 
Thou  hast  it  ;  use  it  and  forthwith,  or 

die! 
For  I  say,  this  is  death  and  the  sole 

death, 
When  a  man's  loss  comes  to  him  from 

his  gain, 
Darkness  from  light,  from  knowledge 

ignorance, 
And  lack  of   love   from   love  made 

manifest : 


A   DEATH  IN   THE   DESERT. 


265 


A  lamp's  death  when,  replete  with 

oil,  it  chokes  ; 
A  stomach's  when,  surcharged  with 

food,  it  starves. 

With  ignorance  was  surety  of  a  cure. 
When  man,  appalled  at  nature,  ques- 
tioned first 
'  What  if  there  lurk  a  might  behind 

this  might  ? ' 
He  needed    satisfaction    God    could 

give, 
And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written 

word  : 
But  when  he  finds  might  still  redouble 

might, 
Yet  asks,  '  Since  all  is  might,  what 

use  of  will  ?  ' 
—  Will,  the  one  source  of  might,  — he 

being  man 
With  a  man's  will  and  a  man's  might, 

to  teach 
In  little  how  the    two    combine    in 

large, — 

That  man  has  turned  round  on  him- 
self and  stands  : 
Which  in  the  course  of  nature  is,  to 

die. 

"  And  when  man  questioned,  '  What 

if  there  be  love 
Behind  the  will  and  might,  as  real  as 

they  ? '  — 
He    needed    satisfaction    God    could 

give, 
And  did  give,  as  ye  have  the  written 

word  : 

But  when,  beholding  that  love  every- 
where, 

He  reasons,  '  Since  such  love  is  every- 
where, 
And  since  ourselves    can   love    and 

would  be  loved, 
We  ourselves   make    the    love,  and 

Christ  was  not,'  — 
How   shall  ye   help    this    man    who 

knows' himself, 
That  he  must  love  and  would  be  loved 

again, 
Yet,  owning  his  own  love  that  proveth 

Christ, 
Rejecteth  Christ  through  very  need  of 

Him? 
The    lamp    o'erswims    with    oil,  the 

stomach  flags 
Loaded  with  nurture,  and  that  man's 

soul  dies. 

'If  he  rejoin,  ' But  this  was  all  the 
while 


A  trick  ;  the  fault  was,  first  of  all,  in 

thee, 
Thy  story  of  the  places,  names  and 

dates, 
Where,  when,  and  how  the  ultimate 

truth  had  rise, 
—  Thy  prior  truth,  at  last  discovered 

none, 

Whence  now  the  second  suffers  detri- 
ment. 
What  good  of  giving  knowledge  if, 

because 
O'  the  manner  of  the  gift,  its  profit 

fail  ? 
And  why  refuse  what   modicum,  of 

help 

Had  stopped  the  after-doubt,  impossi- 
ble 
I'  the  face  of  truth  —  truth  absolute, 

uniform  ? 
Why  must  I  hit  of  this  and  miss  of 

that, 
Distinguish  just   as  I    be    weak    or 

strong, 
And  not  ask  of  thee  and  have  answer 

prompt, 
Was  this  once,  was  it  not  once?  — 

then  and  now 
And  evermore,  plain  truth  from  man 

to  man. 
Is  John's  procedure  just  the  heathen 

bard's  ? 

Put  question  of  his  famous  play  again 
How  for  the  ephemerals'  sake,  Jove's 

fire  was  filched, 
And  carried  in  a  cane  and  brought  to 

earth  : 

The  fact  is  in  the  fable,  cry  the  wise, 
Mortals  obtained  the  boon,  so  much  is 

fact, 
Though  fire  be  spirit  and  produced  on 

earth. 
As  with  the  Titan's,  so  now  with  thy 

tale  : 

Why  breed  in  us  perplexity,  mistake, 
Nor  tell  the  whole  truth  in  the  proper 
words  ? ' 

"  I  answer,  Have  ye  yet  to  argue  out 
The  very  primal  thesis,  plainest  law, 
—  Man  is  not  God  but  hath  God's  end 

to  serve, 

A  master  to  obey,  a  course  to  take, 
Somewhat  to  cast  off,  somewhat  to 

become  ? 
Grant  this,  then  man  must  pass  from 

old  to  new, 
From  vain  to  real,  from  mistake  to 

fact, 


266 


A   DEATH  IN   THE   DESERT. 


From  what  once  seemed  good,  to  what 

now  proves  best : 
How    could    man    have    progression 

otherwise  ? 
Before  the  point  was  mooted  '  What 

is  God  ? ' 
No  savage   man   inquired  '  What  is 

myself?' 
Much  less  replied,  '  First,  last,  and 

best  of  things.' 

Man  takes  that  title  now  if  he  believes 
Might  can  exist  with  neither  will  nor 

love, 
In  God's  case  —  what  he  names  now 

Nature's  Law  — 

While  in  himself  he  recognizes  love 
No  less  than  might   and  will :  and 

rightly  takes. 
Since  if  man  prove  the  sole  existent 

thing 
Where  these  combine,  whatever  their 

degree, 
However  weak  the  might  or  will  or 

love, 

So  they  be  found  there,  put  in  evi- 
dence,— 

He  is  as  surely  higher  in  the  scale 
Than  any  might  with  neither  love  nor 

will, 

As  life,  apparent  in  the  poorest  midge 
(When  the  faint  dust-speck  Hits,  ye 

guess  its  wing), 
Is  marvellous    beyond    dead    Atlas' 

self  — 

Given  to  the  nobler  midge  for  resting- 
place  ! 
Thus,  man  proves  best  and  highest  — 

God,  in  fine, 

And  thus  the  victory  leads  but  to  de- 
feat, 
The  gain  to  loss,  best  rise  to  the  worst 

fall, 
His  life  becomes  impossible,  which  is 

death. 

"But  if,  appealing  thence,  he  cower, 

avouch 

He  is  mere  man,  and  in  humility 
Neither  may  know  God  nor  mistake 

himself  ; 

I  point  to  the  immediate  consequence 
And  say,  by  such  confession  straight 

he  falls 
Into  man's  place,  a  thing  nor  God  nor 

beast, 
Made    to   know   that  he   can  know 

and  not  more  : 
Lower  than  God  who  knows  all  and 

can  all, 


Higher  than  beasts  which  know  and 
can  so  far 

As  each  beast's  limit,  perfect  to  an 
end,  , 

Nor  conscious  that  they  know,  nor 
craving  more  ; 

While  man  knows  partly  but  con- 
ceives beside, 

Creeps  ever  on  from  fancies  to  the 
fact, 

And  in  this  striving,  this  converting 
air 

Into  a  solid  he  may  grasp  and  use, 

Finds  progress,  man's  distinctive  mark 
alone, 

Not  God's,  and  not  the  beasts' :  God 
is,  they  are, 

Man  partly  is  and  wholly  hopes  to  be. 

Such  progress  could  no  more  attend 
his  soul 

Were  all  it  struggles  after  found  at 
first 

And  guesses  changed  to  knowledge 
absolute, 

Than  motion  wait  his  body,  were  all 
else 

Than  it  the  solid  earth  on  every  side, 

Where  now  through  space  he  moves 
from  rest  to  rest. 

Man,  therefore,  thus  conditioned, 
must  expect 

He  could  not,  what  he  knows  now, 
know  at  first ; 

What  he  considers  that  he  knows  to- 
day, 

Come  but  to-morrow,  he  will  find  mia- 
known  ; 

Getting  increase  of  knowledge,  since 
he  learns 

Because  he  lives,  which  is  to  be  a 
man, 

Set  to  instruct  himself  by  his  past 
self : 

First,  like  the  brute,  obliged  by  facts 
to  le  -,rn, 

Next,  as  man  may,  obliged  by  his 
own  mind, 

Bent,  habit,  nature,  knowledge  turned 
to  law. 

God's  gift  was  that  man  should  con- 
ceive of  truth, 

And  yearn  to  gain  it,  catching  at  mis- 
take, 

As  midway  help  till  he  reach  fact  in- 
deed. 

The  statuary  ere  he  mould  a  shape 

Boasts  a  like  gift,  the  shape's  idea, 
and  next 

The  aspiration  to  produce  the  same 


A   DEATH  IN   THE  DESERT. 


So,  taking  clay,   he  calls  his   shape 

thereout, 
Cries  ever  'Now  I  have  the  thing  I 

see  : ' 
Yet  all  the  while  goes  changing  what 

was  wrought. 
From   falsehood    like   the    truth,    to 

truth  itself. 
How  were  it  had  he  cried  '  I  see  no 

face, 
No  breast,  no  feet  i'  the  ineffectual 

clay  ? ' 
jlather  commend  him  that  he  clapped 

his  hands. 
And    laughed  ;  It  is  my  shape  and 

lives  again  ! ' 
Enjoyed  the  falsehood,  touched  it  on 

to  truth, 
Until   yourselves   applaud    the    flesh 

indeed 

In  what  is  still  flesh-imitating  clay. 
Right  in  you,  right  in  him,  such  way 

he  man's ! 
God  only  makes  the  live  shape  at  a 

jet. 
Will  ye  renounce  this  pact  of  crea- 

tureship  ? 
The  pattern  on  the  Mount  subsists  no 

more, 
Seemed    a  while,  then    returned  to 

nothingness  ; 
But    copies,   Moses   strove  to    mak:; 

thereby, 
Serve  still  and  are  replaced  as  time 

requires  : 
By  these,  make  newest  vessels,  reach 

the  type  ! 
If  ye  demur,  this  judgment  on  your 

head, 
Never  to  reach  t?ie  ultimate,  angels' 

law, 

Indulging  every  instinct  of  the  soul 
There   where  law,  life,  joy,  impulse 

are  one  thing ! 

'•'•  Such  is  the  burthen  of  the  latest 

time. 
I  have  survived  to  hear  it  -with  my 

ears, 
Answer  it  with  my  lips  :  does  this 

suffice  ? 
For  if  there  be  a  further  woe  than 

such, 
Wherein  rny  brothers  struggling  need 

a  hand, 

So  long  as  any  pulse  is  left  in  mine, 
May  I  be  absent  even  longer  yet, 
Plucking  the  blind  ones,  back  from 

the  abyss, 


Though  I  should  tarry  a  new  hun- 
dreo  years !  " 

But  he  was  dead  :  'twas  about  noon, 

the  day 
Somewhat  declining  :  we  five  buried 

him 
That  eve,  and  then,  dividing,  went 

five  ways, 
And  I,  disguised,  returned  to  Ephe- 

sus. 

By  this,  the  cave's  mouth  must  be 

filled  with  sand. 
Valens   is   lost,  I   know   not  of  his 

trace  ; 
The  Bactrian  was  but  a  wild  childish 

man, 
And  could  not  write  nor  speak,  but 

only  loved  : 

So,  lest  the  memory  of  this  go  quite, 
Seeing  that   I    to-morrow   fight    the 

beasts, 
I   tell  the   same  to  Phoebas,  whom 

believe ! 

For  many  look  again  to  find  that  face, 
Beloved   John's   to   whom   I  minis- 
tered, 
Somewhere  in  life  about  the  world  ; 

they  err : 
Either  mistaking  what  was  darkly 

spoke 

At  ending  of  his  book,  as  he  relates, 
Or  misconceiving  somewhat  of  this 

speech 
Scattered  from  mouth  to  mouth,  as  I 

suppose. 

Believe  ye  will  not  see  him  any  more 
About  the  world  with  his  divine  re- 
gard ! 
For  all  was  as  I  say,  and  now  the 

man 
Lies  as  he  lay  once,  breast  to  breast 

with  God. 


[Cerinthus    read    and    mused ;    one 
added  this  :  — 

"  If  Christ,  as  thou  amrmest,  be  of 

men 
Mere   man,   the   first  and   best   but 

nothing  more,  — 
Account  Him,  for  reward  of  what  He 

was, 

Now  and  forever,  wretchedest  of  all. 
For  see  ;  Himself  conceived  of  life  as 

love, 


268 


FEARS  AND   SCRUPLES. 


Conceived  of  love  as  what  must  enter 

in, 
Fill  up,  make  one  with  His  each  soul 

He  loved  : 
Thus  much  for  man's  joy,  all  men's 

joy  for  Him. 
"Well,  He  is  gone,  thou  sayest,  to  fit 

reward. 
But  by  this  time  are  many  souls  set 

free, 

And  very  many  still  retained  alive  : 
Nay,  should  His  coming  be  delayed 

a  while, 
Say,  ten  years  longer  (twelve  years, 

some  compute) 

See  if,  for  every  finger  of  thy  hands, 
There   be   not  found,   that   day   the 

world  shall  end, 
Hundreds  of  souls,  each  holding  by 

Christ's  word 
That  He  will  grow  incorporate  with 

all, 
With  me  as  Pamphylax,  with  him  as 

John, 
Groom  for  each  bride !    Can  a  mere 

man  do  this  ? 
Yet  Christ  saith,  this  He  lived  and 

died  to  do. 

Call  Christ,  then,  the  illimitable  God, 
Or  lost ! " 

But  'twas  Cerinthus  that  is  lost.] 


FEARS  AND  SCRUPLES. 


HEBE'S  my  case.    Of  old  I  used  to 

love  him, 
This  same  unseen  friend,  before  I 

knew : 
Dream  there  was  none  like  him,  none 

above  him,  — 

Wake  to  hope  and  trust  my  dream 
was  true. 


n. 

Loved  I  not  his  letters  full  of  beauty  ? 
Not   his   actions   famous    far   and 

wide? 
Absent,  he  would  know  I  vowed  him 

duty; 

Present,  he  would  find  me  at  his 
side. 


in. 
Pleasant  fancy  !  for  I  had  but  letters, 

Only  knew  of  actions  by  hearsay  : 
He  himself  was  busied  with  my  bet- 
ters ; 

What  of  that  ?    My  turn  must  corno 
some  day. 


"Some     day"     proving — nc     day! 

Here's  the  puzzle. 
Passed    and    passed    my    turn    is. 

Why  complain  ? 

He's  so  busied  !    If  I  could  but  muz- 
zle 

People's  foolish  mouths  that  give 
me  pain  ! 


"Letters?"    (hear   them!)    "You    a 

judge  of  writing  ? 
Ask  the  experts  !     How  they  shake 

the  head 
O'er  these  characters,  your  friend's 

inditing  — 
Call  them  forgery  from  A  to  Z  \ 


VI. 

"Actions?     Where's    your     certain 

proof"  (they  bother) 
"  He,  of  all  you  find  so  great  and 

good, 
He,  he  only,   claims  this,  that,  the 

other 

Action  —  claimed  by  men,  a  multi- 
tude?" 


I  can  simply  wish   I   might   refute 

you, 
Wish  my  friend  would,  —  by  a  word, 

a  wink,  — 
Bid  me  stop  that  foolish  mouth,— 

you  brute  you ! 

He  keeps  absent,  —  why,  I  cannot 
think. 


Never    mind !     Though    foolishness 

may  flout  me, 
One     thing's    sure     enough :     'tis 

neither  frost, 
No,   nor  fire,   shall   freeze    or   burn 

from  out  me 

Thanks    for    truth  —  though    false- 
hood, gained  —  though  lost. 


ARTEMIS  PROLOGIZES. 


269 


All  my  days,  I'll  go  the  softlier,  sail- 

lier, 

For  that  dream's  sake !    How  for- 
get the  thrill 
Through  and  through  ine  as  I  thought 

' '  The  gladlier 

Lives  iny  friend  because  I  love  him 
still  !  " 


Ah,  but  there's  a  menace  some  one 

utters ! 
"  What  and  if  your  friend  at  home 

play  tricks  ? 
Peep   at   hide-and-seek    behind    the 

shutters  ? 

Mean    your    eyes    should    pierce 
through  solid  bricks  ? 


"  What   and   if  he,   frowning,   wake 

you,  dreamy 
Lay  on  you  the  blame  that  bricks  — 

conceal  ? 

Say  '  At  least  I  saw  who  did  not  see  me, 
Does  see  now,  and  presently   shall 
feel?' 


"  Why,    that    makes    your    friend    a 

monster  !  "  say  you  : 
Had   his   house    no   window  ?    At 

first  nod, 
Would  you  not  have  hailed  him?" 

Hush,  I  pray  you  ! 
What  if  this  friend  happen  to  be  — 
God? 


ARTEMIS   PROLOGIZES. 

I   AM   a   goddess   of    the    ambrosial 

courts, 
And  save  by  Here,  Queen  of  Pride, 

surpassed 
By  none  whose  temples  whiten  this 

the  world. 
Through  heaven  I  roll  my  lucid  moon 

along  ; 
I  shed  in  hell  o'er  my  pale  people 

peace  ; 
On  earth  I,  caring  for  the  creatures, 

guard 

Each  pregnant,  yellow  wolf  and  fox- 
bitch  sleek, 


And  every  feathered  mother's  cal- 
low brood, 

And  all  that  love  green  haunts  and 
loneliness. 

Of  men,  the  chaste  adore  me,  hang- 
ing crowns 

Of  poppies  red  to  blackness,  bell  and 
stem, 

Upon  my  image  at  Athenai  here  ; 

And  this  dead  Youth,  Asclepios  bends 
above, 

Was  dearest  to  me.  He,  my  bus- 
kined  step 

To  follow  through  the  wild-wood 
leafy  ways, 

And  chase  the  panting  stag,  or  swift 
with  darts 

Stop  the  swift  ounce,  or  lay  the  leop- 
ard low, 

Neglected  homage  to  another  god  : 

Whence  Aphrodite,  by  no  midnight 
smoke 

Of  tapers  lulled,  in  jealousy  de- 
spatched 

A  noisome  lust  that,  as  the  gadbee 
stings, 

Possessed  his  stepdame  Phaidra  for 
himself 

The  son  of  Theseus  her  great  absent, 
spouse. 

Hippolutos  exclaiming  in  his  rage 

Against  the  fury  of  the  Queen,  she 
judged 

Life  insupportable  ;  and,  pricked  at 
heart 

An  Amazonian  stranger's  race  should 
dare 

To  scorn  her,  perished  by  the  murder- 
ous cord  : 

Yet,  ere  she  perished,  blasted  in  a 
scroll 

The  fame  of  him  her  swerving  made 
not  swerve. 

And  Theseus,  read,  returning,  and 
believed, 

And  exiled,  in  the  blindness  of  his 
wrath , 

The  man  without  a  crime  who,  last  as 
first, 

Loyal,  divulged  not  to  his  sire  the 
truth. 

Now  Theseus  from  Poseidon  had  ob- 
tained 

That  of  his  wishes  should  be  granted 
three, 

And  one  he  imprecated  straight  — 
"  Alive 

May  ne'er  Hippolutos  reach  other 
lands  !  " 


270 


ARTEMIS  PROLOGIZES. 


Poseidon  heard,  ai  ai !  And  scarce 
the  prince 

Had  stepped  into  the  fixed  boots  of 
the  car 

That  give  the  feet  a  stay  against  the 
strength 

Of  the  Henetian  horses,  and  around 

His  body  flung  the  rein,  and  urged 
their  speed 

Along  the  rocks  and  shingles  of  the 
shore, 

When  from  the  gaping  wave  a  mon- 
ster flung 

His  obscene  body  in  the  coursers' 
path. 

These,  mad  with  terror,  as  the  sea- 
bull  sprawled 

Wallowing  about  their  feet,  lost  care 
of  him 

That  reared  them  ;  and  the  master- 
chariot-pole 

Snapping  beneath  their  plunges  like  a 
reed, 

Hippolutos,  whose  feet  were  tram- 
melled fast, 

Was  yet  dragged  forward  by  the 
circling  rein 

Which  either  hand  directed  ;  nor  they 
quenched 

The  frenzy  of  their  flight  before  each 
trace, 

Wheel-spoke  and  splinter  of  the  woe- 
ful car, 

Each  bowlder-stone,  sharp  stub,  and 
spiny  shell, 

Huge  fish-bone  wrecked  and  wreathed 
amid  the  sands 

On  that  detested  beach,  was  bright 
with  blood 

And  morsels  of  his  flesh  :  then  fell  the 
steeds 

Head-foremost,  crashing  in  their 
mooned  fronts, 

Shivering  with  sweat,  each  white  eye 
horror-fixed. 

His  people,  who  had  witnessed  all 
afar, 

Bore  back  the  ruins  of  Hippolutos. 

But  when  his  sire,  too  swoln  with 
pride,  rejoiced 

(Indomitable  as  a  man  foredoomed) 

That  vast  Poseidon  had  fulfilled  his 
prayer, 

I,  in  a  flood  of  glory  visible, 

Stood  o'er  my  dying  votary,  and,  deed 

By  deed,  revealed,  as  all  took  place, 
the  truth. 

Then  Theseus  lay  the  woefullest  of 
men, 


Anil  worthily  ;  but  ere  the  death-veils 

hid 
His  face,  the  murdered  prince    full 

pardon  breathed 
To  his  rash  sire.    Whereat  Athenai 

wails. 

So  I,  who  ne'er  forsake  my  votaries, 

Lest  to  the  cross-way  none  the  honey- 
cake 

Should  tender,  nor  pour  out  the  dog's 
hot  life  ; 

Lest  at  my  fane  the  priests  disconso- 
late 

Should  dress  my  image  with  some 
faded  poor 

Few  crowns,  made  favors  of,  nor  dare 
object 

Such  slackness  to  my  worshippers  who 
turn 

Elsewhere  the  trusting  heart  and 
loaded  hand, 

As  they  had  climbed  Olumpos  to  re- 
port 

Of  Artemis  and  nowhere  found  her 
throne  — 

I  interposed  :  and,  this  eventful 
night  — 

(While  round  the  funeral  pyre  the 
populace 

Stood  with  fierce  light  on  their  black 
robes  which  bound 

Each  sobbing  head,  while  yet  their 
hair  they  clipped 

O'er  the  dead  body  of  their  withered 
prince, 

And,  in  his  palace,  Theseus  prostrated 

On  the  cold  hearth,  his  brow  cold  as 
the  slab 

'Twas  bruised  on,  groaned  away  the 
heavy  grief  — 

As  the  pyre  fell,  and  down  the  cross 
logs  crashed 

Sending  a  crowd  of  sparkles  through 
the  night, 

And  the  gay  fire,  elate  with  mastery, 

Towered  like  a  serpent  o'er  the  clotted 
jars 

Of  wine,  dissolving  oils  and  frankin- 
cense, 

And  splendid  gums  like  gold),  —  my 
potency 

Conveyed  the  perished  man  to  my  re- 
treat 

In  the  thrice-venerable  forest  here. 

And  this  white-bearded  sage  who 
squeezes  now 

The  berried  plant,  is  Phoibos'  son  of 
fame, 


PHEIDIPPIDES 


271 


Asclepios,  whom  my  radiant  brother 

taught 
The  doctrine  of  each  herb  and  flower 

and  root, 
To  know  their  secret'st  virtue    and 

express 
The  saving  soul  of  all  :  who  so  has 

soothed 

With  lavers  the  torn  brow  and  mur- 
dered cheeks, 
Composed  the  hair  and  brought  its 

gloss  again, 
And  called  the  red  bloom  to  the  pale 

skin  back, 
And  laid  the  strips  and  jagged  ends 

of  flesh 
Even  once    more,  and    slacked    the 

sinew's  knot 
Of  every  tortured  limb  —  that  now  he 

lies 


As  if  mere  sleep  possessed  him  under* 

neath 
These  interwoven    oaks   and    pines. 

Oh  cheer, 

Divine  presenter  of  the  healing  rod, 
Thy  snake,  with  ardent  throat  and 

lulling  eye, 
Twines  his  lithe  spires    around !     I 

say,  much  cheer ! 
Proceed  thou  with  thy  wisest  pharma 

cies  ! 
And  ye,  white    crowd  of  woodlano 

sister-nymphs, 
Ply,  as  the  sage  directs,  these  buds 

and  leaves 
That  strew  the  turf  around  the  twain  1 

While  I 
Await,  in  fitting  silence,  the  event. 


PHEIDIPPIDES. 

\aipere,   vt.Ktafj.ti'. 

FIRST  I  salute  this  soil  of  the  blessed,  river  and  rock  ! 
Gods  of  my  birthplace,  demons  and  heroes,  honor  to  all ! 
Then  I  name  thee,  claim  thee  for  our  patron,  co-equal  in  praise 
—  Ay,  with  Zeus  the  Defender,  with  Her  of  the  aegis  and  spear  ! 
Also,  ye  of  the  bow  and  the  buskin,  praised  be  your  peer, 
Now,  henceforth,  and  forever,  —  O  latest  to  whom  I  upraise 
Hand  and  heart  and  voice  !    For  Athens,  leave  pasture  and  flock  ! 
Present  to  help,  potent  to  save,  Pan  —  patron  I  call ! 

Archons  of  Athens,  topped  by  the  tettix,  see,  I  return  ! 

See,  'tis  myself  here  standing  alive,  no  spectre  that  speaks  ! 

Crowned  with  the  myrtle,  did  you  command  me,  Athens  and  you, 

"  Run,  Pheidippides,  run  and  race,  reach  Sparta  for  aid  ! 

Persia  has  come,  we  are  here,  where  is  She  ?  "    Your  command  I  obeyed, 

Ran  and  raced  :  like  stubble,  some  field  which  a  fire  runs  through, 

Was  the  space  between  city  and  city  :  two  days,  two  nights  did  I  burn 

Over  the  hills,  under  the  dales,  down  pits  and  up  peaks. 

Into  their  midst  I  broke  :  breath  served  but  for  "  Persia  has  come  ! 

Persia  bids  Athens  proffer  slaves'-tribute,  water  and  earth  ; 

Razed  to  the  ground  is  Eretria  — but  Athens,  shall  Athens  sink, 

Drop  into  dust  and  die  —  the  flower  of  Hellas  utterly  die. 

Die,  with  the  wide  world  spitting  at  Sparta,  the  stupid,  the  stander-by? 

Answer  me  quick,  what  help,  what  hand  do  you  stretch  o'er  destruction's 

brink  ? 

How,  —  when  ?    No  care  for  my  limbs  !  —  there's  lightning  in  all  and  som&— 
Fresh  and  fit  your  message  to  bear,  once  lips  give  it  birth  !  " 

O  my  Athens  —  Sparta  love  thee  ?    Did  Sparta  respond  ? 
Every  face  of  her  leered  in  a  furrow  of  envy,  mistrust, 


PHEID1PPIDES. 


Malice,  —  each  eye  of  her  gave  me  its  glitter  of  gratified  hate  t 
Gravely  they  turned  to  take  counsel,  to  cast  for  excuses.    I  stood 
Quivering,  —  the  limbs  of  me  fretting  as  fire  frets,  an  inch  from  dry  wood : 
"  Persia  has  come,  Athens  asks  aid,  and  still  they  debate? 
Thunder,  thou  Zeus  !    Athene,  are  Spartans  a  quarry  beyond 
Swing  of  thy  spear?    Phoibos  and  Artemis,  clang  them  '  Ye  must '  1  •'* 

No  bolt  launched  from  Olumpos  !    Lo,  their  answer  at  last ! 
"  Has  Persia  come,  —  does  Athens  ask  aid,  —  may  Sparta  befriend  ? 
Nowise  precipitate  judgment  —  too  weighty  the  issue  at  stake  ! 
Count  we  no  time  lost  time  which  lags  through  respect  to  the  Gods  1 
Ponder  that  precept  of  old,  '  No  warfare,  whatever  the  odds 
In  your  favor,  so  long  as  the  moon,  half-orbed,  is  unable  to  take 
Full-circle  her  state  in  the  sky  ! '    Already  she  rounds  to  it  fast : 
Athens  must  wait,  patient  as  we  —  who  judgment  suspend." 

Athens,  — except  for  that  sparkle,  —  thy  name,  I  had  mouldered  to  ash  J 
That  sent  a  blaze  through  my  blood  ;  off,  off  and  away  was  I  back, 
—  Not  one  word  to  waste,  one  look  to  lose  on  the  false  and  the  vile  ! 
Yet  "  O  Gods  of  my  land  !  "  I  cried,  as  each  hillock  and  plain, 
Wood  and  stream,  I  knew,  I  named,  rushing  past  them  again, 
"  Have  ye  kept  faith,  proved  mindful  of  honors  we  paid  you  erewhile  ? 
Vain  was  the  filleted  victim,  the  fulsome  libation  !    Too  rash 
Love  in  its  choice,  paid  you  so  largely  service  so  slack  ! 

"  Oak  and  olive  and  bay,  —  I  bid  you  cease  to  iii wreathe 
Brows  made  bold  by  your  leaf  !     Fade  at  the  Persian's  foot, 
You  that,  our  patrons  were  pledged,  should  never  adorn  a  slave  ! 
Rather  I  hail  thee,  Parnes, — trust  to  thy  wild  waste  tract ! 
Treeless,  herbless,  lifeless  mountain  !     What  matter  if  slacked 
My  speed  may  hardly  be,  for  homage  to  crag  and  to  cave 
No  deity  deigns  to  drape  with  verdure,  —  at  least  I  can  breathe, 
Fear  in  thee  no  fraud  from  the  blind,  no  lie  from  the  mute  !  " 

Such  my  cry  as,  rapid,  I  ran  over  Fames'  ridge  ; 

GHilly  and  gap,  I  clambered  and  cleared  till,  sudden,  bar 

Jutted,  a  stoppage  of  stone  against  me,  blocking  the  way. 

Right !  for  I  minded  the  hollow  to  traverse,  the  fissure  across  : 

"  Where  I  could  enter,  there  I  depart  by  !    Night  in  the  fosse  ? 

Out  of  the  day  dive,  into  the  day  as  bravely  arise  !    No  bridge 

Better  !  "  —  when  —  ha  !  what  was  it  I  came  on,  of  wonders  that  are  ? 

There,  in  the  cool  of  a  cleft,  sat  he  —  majestical  Pan  ! 
Ivy  drooped  wanton,  kissed  his  head,  moss  cushioned  his  hoof : 
All  the  great  God  was  good  in  the  eyes  grave-kindly  —  the  curl 
Carved  on  the  bearded  cheek,  amused  at  a  mortal's  awe, 
As,  under  the  human  trunk,  the  goat-thighs  grand  I  saw. 
"  Halt,  Pheidippides  !  "  — halt  I  did,  my  brain  of  a  whirl : 
"Hither  to  me  !    Why  pale  in  my  presence ? "  he  gracious  began  : 
"  How  is  it,  — Athens,  only  in  Hellas,  holds  me  aloof  ? 

"  Athens,  she  only,  rears  me  no  fane,  makes  me  no  feast ! 
Wherefore  ?    Than  I  what  godship  to  Athens  more  helpful  of  old  ? 
Ay,  and  still,  and  forever  her  friend  !     Put  Pan  to  the  test ! 
Go,  bid  Athens  take  heart,  laugh  Persia  to  scorn,  have  faith 
In  the  temples  and  tombs  !    Go,  say  to  Athens,  '  The  Goat-God  saith  : 
When  Persia  —  so  much  as  strews  not  the  soil  —  is  cast  in  the  sea, 
Then  praise  Pan  who  fought  in  the  ranks  with  your  most  and  least, 
Goat-thigh  to  greaved-thigh,  made  one  cause  with  the  free  and  the  bold  I ' 


PHEIDIPPW1-IS. 


"  Say  Pan  saith  :  '  Let  this,  foreshowing  the  place,  be  the  pledge  I '  " 

(Gay,  the  liberal  hand  held  out  this  herbage  I  bear 

— Fennel,  whatever  it  bode  —  I  grasped  it  a-tremble  with  dew.) 

"While,  as  for  thee  ..."    But  enough  !    He  was  gone.    If  I  ran  hither 

to  — 

Be  sure  that,  the  rest  of  my  journey,  I  ran  no  longer,  but  flew. 
Here  am  I  back.     Praise  Pan,  we  stand  no  more  on  the  razor's  edge  1 
Pan  for  Athens,  Pan  for  me  !  myself  have  a  guerdon  rare  ! 


Then  spoke  Miltiades.    "  And  thee,  best  runner  of  Greece, 

Whose  limbs  did  duty  indeed,  —  what  gift  is  promised  thyself? 

Tell  it  us  straightway,  — Athens  the  mother  demands  of  her  son  !  " 

Rosily  blushed  the  youth  :  he  paused  :  but,  lifting  at  length 

His  eyes  from  the  ground,  it  seemed  as  he  gathered  the  rest  of  his  strength 

Into  the  utterance  — "  Pan  spoke  thus  :  '  For  what  thou  hast  done 

Count  on  a  worthy  reward  !    Henceforth  be  allowed  thee  release 

From  the  racer's  toil,  no  vulgar  reward  in  praise  or  in  pelf ! ' 

"  I  am  bold  to  believe,  Pan  means  reward  the  most  to  my  mind  ! 
Fight  I  shall,  with  our  foremost,  wherever  this  fennel  may  grow,  — 
Pound  —  Pan  helping  us  —  Persia  to  dust,  and,  under  the  deep, 
"Whelm  her  away  forever  ;  and  then,  — no  Athens  to  save, — 
Marry  a  certain  maid,  I  know  keeps  faith  to  the  brave,  — 
Hie  to  my  house  and  home  :  and,  when  my  children  shall  creep 
Close  to  my  knees,  —  recount  how  the  God  was  awful  yet  kind, 
Promised  their  sire  reward  to  the  full  — rewarding  him  — so  !  " 


Unforeseeing  one  !    Yes,  he  fought  on  the  Marathon  day  : 
So,  when  Persia  was  dust,  all  cried  "  To  Akropolis  ! 
Run,  Pheidippides,  one  race  more  !  the  meed  is  thy  due  ! 
'  Athens  is  saved,  thank  Pan,'  go  shout !  "    He  flung  down  his  shield, 
Ran  like  fire  once  more  :  and  the  space  'twixt  the  Fennel-field 
And  Athens  was  stubble  again,  a  field  which  a  fire  runs  through, 
Till  in  he  broke  :  "  Rejoice,  we  conquer  !  "     Like  wine  through  clay, 
Joy  in  his  blood  bursting  his  heart,  he  died  — the  bliss  ! 

So,  to  this  day,  when  friend  meets  friend,  the  word  of  salute 

Is  still  "  Rejoice  !  "  —  his  word  which  brought  rejoicing  indeed. 

So  is  Pheidippides  happy  forever,  —  the  noble  strong  man 

Who  could  race  like  a  God,  bear  the  face  of  a  God,  whom  a  God  loved  sc 

well 

He  saw  the  land  saved  he  had  helped  to  save,  and  was  suffered  to  tell 
Such  tidings,  yet  never  decline,  but,  gloriously  as  he  began, 
So  to  end  gloriously  —once  to  shout,  thereafter  be  mute  : 
"  Athens  te  saved  1 "  —  Pheidippides  dies  in  the  shout  for  his  meed. 


274 


THE  PATRIOT. 


THE   PATRIOT. 

AN  OLD  STORY. 

I. 

IT  was  roses,  roses,  all  the  way, 
With  myrtle  mixed  in  my  path  like 

mad : 
The  house-roofs  seemed  to  heave  and 

sway, 
The  church-spires  flamed,  such  flags 

they  had, 
A  year  ago  on  this  very  day. 


The  air  broke  into  a  mist  with  bells, 
The  old  walls  rocked  with  the  crowd 

and  cries. 
Had  I  said,  "  Good  folk,  mere  noise 

repels  — 
But  give  me  your  sun  from  yonder 

skies ! " 

They  had  answered  "  And  afterward, 
what  else?" 


Alack,  it  was  I  who  leaped  at  the  sun 
To  give  it   my  loving   friends   to 

keep ! 

Naught  man  could  do,  have  I  left  un- 
done : 
And  you  see  my  harvest,  what  I 

reap 
This  very  day,  now  a  year  is  run. 


IV. 

There's   nobody    on   the    house-tops 

now  — 
Just  a  palsied  few  at  the  windows 

set ; 

For  the  best  of  the  sight  is,  all  allow, 
At  the  Shambles'  Gate  —  or,  better 

yet, 
By  the  very  scaffold's  foot,  I  trow. 


I  go  in   the    rain,  and,  more    than 

needs, 

A  rope  cuts  both  my  wrists  behind  ; 
And  I  think,  by  the  feel,  my  forehead 

bleeds, 

For  they  fling,  whoever  has  a  mind, 
Stones  at  me  for  my  year's  misdeeds. 


Thus  I  entered,  and  thus  I  go  ! 
In  triumphs,  people  have  dropped 

down  dead. 
"  Paid  by  the  world,  what  dost  thou 

owe 
Me?"  —  God  might  question  ;  now 

instead, 
'Tis  God  shall  repay  :  I  am  safer  so. 


POPULARITY. 


STAND  still,  true  poet  that  you  are  ! 
I  know  you ;  let  me  try'  and  draw 

you. 

Some  night  you'll  fail  us  :  when  afar 
You  rise,  remember  one  man  saw 

you, 
Knew  you,  and  named  a  star  ! 


My  star,  God's  glow-worm  !     Why 

extend 
That  loving  hand  of  His  which  leads 

you, 

Yet  locks  you  safe  from  end  to  end 
Of  this  dark  world,  unless  He  needs 

you, 
Just  saves  your  light  to  spend  ? 


His  clinched  hand  shall  unclose  at 
last, 

I  know,  and  let  out  all  the  beauty : 
My  poet  holds  the  future  fast, 

Accepts  the  coming  ages'  duty, 
Their  present  for  this  past. 


That  day,  the  earth's  feast-master's 

brow 

Shall  clear,  to  God  the  chalice  rais- 
ing ; 
"  Others  give  best  at  first,  but  Thou 

Forever  set'st  our  table  praising, 
Keep'st  the  good  wine  till  now  !  " 


Meantime,  I'll  draw  you  as  you  stand, 
With  few  or  none    to  watch  and 
wonder  : 


PISGAH-SIGHTS. 


275 


I'll  say  —  a  fisher,  on  the  sand 
By  Tyre  the  old,  with  ocean-plun- 
der, 
A  netful,  brought  to  land. 


Who  has  not  heard  how  Tyrian  shells 
Enclosed  the  blue,  that  dye  of  dyes 

Whereof  one  drop  worked  miracles, 
And  colored  like  Astarte's  eyes 

Raw  silk  the  merchant  sells  ? 


And  each  by-stander  of  them  all 

Could  criticise,  and  quote  tradition 
How  depths  of  blue  sublimed  some 

pall 
—  To  get  which,  pricked  a  king's 

ambition  ; 
Worth  sceptre,  crown,  and  ball. 


Yet  there's  the  dye,  in  that   rough 

mesh, 
The  sea  has   only    just  o'er-whis- 

pereil ! 
Live  whelks,  each  lip's  beard  dripping 

fresh, 
As  if   they  still    the  water's    lisp 

heard 
Through  foam  the  rock- weeds  thresh. 


Enough  to  furnish  Solomon 
Such  hangings  for  his  cedar-house, 

That,  when  gold-robed  he  took  the 

throne 
In  that  abyss  of  blue,  the  Spouse 

Might  swear  his  presence  shone 


Most  like  the  centre-spike  of  gold 
Which  burns  deep  in  the  blue-bell's 
womb 

What  time,  with  ardors  manifold, 
The  bee  goes  singing  to  her  groom, 

Drunken  and  overbold. 


XI. 

not    fit  for 


warp    or 


Mere  conchs ! 

woof! 
Till  cunning  come  to   pound  and 

squeeze 
And  clarify,  — refine  to  proof 

The  liquor  filtered  by  degrees, 
While  the  world  stands  aloof. 


And  there's  the  extract,  flasked  and 

fine, 

And  priced  and  salable  at  last ! 
And  Hobbs,  Nobbs,  Stokes,  and  Nokes 

combine 

To  paint  the  future  from  the  past, 
Put  blue  into  their  line. 


XIII. 

Hobbs  hints  blue,  —  straight  he  turtle 

eats  : 
Nobbs  prints  blue,  —  claret  crowns 

his  cup  : 
Nokes    outdares    Stokes     in     azure 

feats,  — 
Both  gorge.    Who  fished  the  murex 

up? 
What  porridge  had  John  Keats  ? 


PISGAH-SIGHTS.     1. 


OVER  the  ball  of  it, 

Peering  and  prying, 
How  I  see  all  of  it, 

Life  there,  outlying  ! 
Roughness  and  smoothness, 

Shine  and  defilement, 
Grace  and  uncouthness  ; 

One  reconcilement. 


Orbed  as  appointed, 

Sister  with  brother 
Joins,  ne'er  disjointed 

One  from  the  other. 
All's  lend-and-borrow  ; 

Good,  see,  wants  evil, 
Joy  demands  sorrow, 

Angel  weds  devil  ! 


"Which  things  must  —  why  be?" 

Vain  our  endeavor ! 
So  shall  things  aye  be 

As  they  were  ever. 
"  Such  things  should  so  be  I" 

Sage  our  desistence ! 
Rough-smooth  let  globe  be, 

Mixed  — man's  existence  ! 


276 


P1SGAH-S1GHTS. 


Man  —  wise  and  foolish, 

Lover  and  scorner, 
Docile  and  mulish  — 

Keep  each  his  corner  ! 
Honey  yet  gall  of  it ! 

There's  the  life  lying, 
And  I  see  all  of  it, 

Only,  I'm  dying ! 


PISGAH-SIGHTS.     2. 


COULD  I  but  live  again, 

Twice  my  life  over, 
Would  I  once  strive  again  ? 

Would  not  I  cover 
Quietly  all  of  it  — 

Greed  and  ambition  — 
So,  from  the  pall  of  it, 

Pass  to  fruition  ? 


Soft !  "  I'd  say,  "  Soul  mine  ! 

Threescore  and  ten  years, 
Let  the  blind  mole  mine 

Digging  out  deniers ! 
Let  the  dazed  hawk  soar, 

Claim  the  sun's  rights  too  ! 
Turf  'tis  thy  walk's  o'er, 

Foliage  thy  flight's  to." 


Only  a  learner, 

Quick  one  or  slow  one, 
Just  a  discerner, 

I  would  teach  no  one. 
I  am  earth's  native  : 

No  re-arranging  it ! 
/  be  creative, 

Chopping  and  changing  it  ? 


March,  men,  my  fellows  ! 

Those  who,  above  me 
(Distance  so  mellows), 

Fancy  you  love  me  : 
Those  who,  below  me 

(Distance  makes  great  so), 
Free  to  forego  me, 

Fancy  you  hate  so  ! 


Praising,  reviling, 

Worst  head  and  best  head, 
Past  me  defiling, 

Never  arrested, 
Wanters,  abounders, 

March,  in  gay  mixture, 
Men,  my  surrounders  ! 

I  am  the  fixture. 


VI. 

So  shall  I  fear  thee, 

Mightiness  yonder ! 
Mock-sun  —  more  near  thee, 

What  is  to  wonder  ? 
So  shall  I  love  thee, 

Down  in  the  dark,  —  lest 
Glowworm  I  prove  thee, 

Star  that  now  sparkiest ! 


PISGAH-SIGHTS.     3. 


GOOD,  to  forgive  ; 

Best,  to  forget ! 

Living,  we  fret  ; 
Dying,  we  live. 
Fretless  and  free, 

Soul,  clap  thy  pinion  ! 

Earth  have  dominion, 
Body,  o'er  thee  ! 


Wander  at  will, 
Day  after  day,  — 
Wander  away, 

Wandering  still  — 

Soul  that  canst  soar ! 
Body  may  slumber : 
Body  shall  cumber 

Soul-flight  no  more. 


in. 

Waft  of  soul's  wing ! 

What  lies  above  ? 

Sunshine  and  Love, 
Skyblue  and  Spring ! 
Body  hides  —  where  ? 

Ferns  of  all  feather, 

Mosses  and  heather, 
Yours  be  the  care  ! 


AT  THE  "MERMAID. 


277 


AT   THE   "MERMAID." 

The  figure  that  thou  here  seest  .  .  .  Tut! 
Was  it  for  gentle  Shakspeare  put  ? 

B.  JONSON.    (Adapted.) 


I — "  Next  Poet?  "    No,  my  hearties, 

I  nor  am  nor  fain  would  be  ! 
Choose  your  chiefs   and   pick   your 
parties, 

Not  one  soul  revolt  to  me  ! 
1,  forsooth,  sow  song-sedition  ? 

I,  a  schism  in  verse  provoke  ? 
I,  blown  up  by  bard's  ambition, 

Burst  —  your     bubble-king  ?     You 
joke. 


Come,  be  grave  !    The  sherris  man- 
tling 

Still  about  each  mouth,  mayhap, 
Breeds   you    insight  —  just    a   scant- 
ling- 
Brings  me  truth  out— just  a  scrap. 
Look  and  tell  me  !    Written,  spoken, 
Here's    my    life-long    work :    and 

where 

—  Where's  your  warrant  or  my  token 
I'm  the  dead  king's  son  and  heir  ? 


Here's  my  work  :  does  work  discover 

What    was    rest    from    work  — my 

life? 
Did  I  live  man's  hater,  lover  ? 

Leave  the  world  at  peace,  at  strife  ? 
Call  earth  ugliness  or  beauty  ? 

See  things  there  in  large  or  small  ? 
Use  to  pay  its  Lord  my  duty  ? 

Use  to  own  a  lord  at  all  ? 


Blank  of  such  a  record,  truly, 

Here's  the  work  I  hand,  this  scroll 
Yours  to  take  or  leave  ;  as  duly, 

Mine  remains  the  unproffered  soul 
So  much,  no  whit  more,  my  debtors  — 

How  should  one  like  me  lay  claim 
To  that  largess  elders,  betters 

Sell  you   cheap   their  souls   for  — 
fame? 


Which  of  you  did  I  enable 
Once  to  slip  inside  my  breast 

There  to  catalogue  and  label 
What  I  like  least,  what  love  best, 


Hope  and  fear,  believe  and  doubt  of, 
Seek  and  shun,  respect  —  deride? 

Who  has  right  to  make  a  rout  of 
Rarities  he  found  inside  ? 

VI. 

Rarities  or,  as  he'd  rather, 

Rubbish  such  as  stocks  his  own  : 
Need  and  greed   (oh   strange !)  the 

Father 

Fashioned  not  for  him  alone  ! 
Whence  —  the  comfort  set  a-strutting, 
Whence  —  the  outcry  "Haste,  be- 
hold! 

Bard's  breast  open  wide,  past  shut- 
ting, 

Shows   what   brass    we    took    for 
gold ! " 


Friends,  I  doubt  not  he'd  display  you 

Brass  —  myself  call  oreichalch,  — 
Furnish  much  amusement ;  pray  you 

Therefore,  be  content  I  balk 
Him  and  you,  and  bar  my  portal ! 

Here's  my  work  outside  ;  opine 
What's  inside  me  mean  and  mortal ! 

Take  your  pleasure,  leave  me  mine  ! 


Which  is  — not  to  buy  your  laurel 

As  last  king  did,  nothing  loth. 
Tale  adorned  and  pointed  moral 

Gained  him  praise  and  pity  both. 
Out   rushed    sighs    and    groans    by 
dozens, 

Forth  by  scores  oaths,  curses  flew  : 
Proving  you  were  cater-cousins, 

Kith  and  kindred,  king  and  you  ! 


Whereas  do  T  ne'er  so  little 

(Thanks  to  sherris)  leave  ajar 
Bosom's  gate  —  no  jot  nor  tittle 

Grow  we  nearer  than  we  are. 
Sinning,  sorrowing,  despairing, 

Body-ruined,  spirit^wrecked, — 
Should  I  give  my  woes  an  airing,  — 

Where's   one    plague   that    claims 
respect  ? 


Have  you  found  your  life  distasteful  ? 

My  life  did  and  does  smack  sweet. 
Was  your  youth  of  pleasure  waste- 
ful? 

Mine  I  saved  and  hold  complete. 


278 


HOUSE. 


Do  your  joys  with  age  diminish  ? 

When  mine  fail  me,  I'll  complain. 
Must  in  death  your  daylight  finish  ? 

My  sun  sets  to  rise  again. 


What,   like   you,   he   proved  — your 

Pilgrim  — 

This  our  world  a  wilderness, 
Earth    still    gray   and   heaven    still 

grim, 

Not  a  hand  there  his  might  press, 
Not  a  heart  his  own  might  throb  to, 
Men  all  rogues  and  women  —  say, 
Dolls  which  boys'  heads  duck  and  bob 

to, 
Grown  folk  drop  or  throw  away  ? 


My  experience  being  other, 

How  should  I  contribute  verse 
Worthy  of  your  king  and  brother  ? 

Balaam-like  I  bless,  not  curse. 
I  find  earth  not  gray  but  rosy, 

Heaven  not  grim  but  fair  of  hue. 
Do  I  stoop  ?    I  pluck  a  posy. 

Do  I  stand  and  stare  ?    All's  blue. 


Doubtless  I  am  pushed  and  shoved 
by 

Rogues  and  fools  enough  :  the  more 
Good  luck  mine,  I  love,  am  loved  by 

Some  few  honest  to  the  core. 
Scan  the  near  high,  scout  the  far  low  ! 

"  But  the  low  come  close  : "  what 

then? 
Simpletons  ?    My  match  is  Marlowe  ; 

Sciolists  ?    My  mate  is  Ben. 

XIV. 

Womankind  —  "  the  cat-like  nature, 

False  and  fickle,  vain  and  weak  "  — 
Scarcely  this  sad  nomenclature 

Suits  my  tongue,  if  I  must  speak. 
Does  the  sex  invite,  repulse  so, 

Tempt,  betray,  by  fits  and  starts  ? 
So  becalm  but  to  convulse  so, 

Decking  heads  and  breaking  hearts  ? 


Well  may  you  blaspheme  at  fortune  ! 

I  "  threw  Venus  "  (Ben,  expound  ! 
Never  did  I  need  importune 

Her,  of  all  the  Olympian  round. 


Blessings  on  my  benefactress  ! 

Cursings  suit  —  for  aught  I  know  — 
Those  who  twitched  her  by  the  back 

tress, 

Tugged  and  thought  to  turn  her  — 
so ! 


Therefore,  since  no  leg  to  stand  on 

Thus  I'm  left  with,  — joy  or  grief 
Be  the  issue,  —  I  abandon 

Hope  or  care  you  name  me  Chief  ! 
Chief  and  king  and  Lord's  anointed, 

I  ? —  who  never  once  have  wished 
Death  before  the  day  appointed  : 

Lived  and  liked,  not  poohed  and 
pished ! 

XVII. 

"  Ah,  but  so  I  shall  not  enter, 
Scroll  in  hand,  the  common  heart  — 

Stopped  at  surface  :  since  at  centre 
Song    should    reach     Welt-schmerz, 

world-smart !  " 

Enter  in  the  heart  ?  "    Its  shelly 
Cuirass  guard  mine,  fore  and  aft ! 

Such  song  "  enters  in  the  belly 
And  is  cast  out  in  the  draught." 


XVIII. 

Back  then  to  our  sherris-brewage  ! 

"  Kingship  "  quotha  ?  I  shall  wait — 
Waive  the  present  time  :   some  ne\r 

age  .  .  . 

But  let  fools  anticipate  ! 
Meanwhile  greet  me—  "  friend,  good 

fellow, 

Gentle  Will,"  my  merry  men  ! 
As  for  making  Envy  yellow 
With     "  Next    Poet  "  —  (Manners, 
Ben!) 


HOUSE. 


SHALL  I  sonnet-sing  you  about  mv- 

self? 
Do  I  live  in  a  house  you  would  like 

to  see  ? 

Is  it  scant  of  gear,  has  it  store  of  pelf  ? 
"  Unlock  my  heart  with  a  sonnet- 
key?" 


SHOP. 


279 


Invite  the  world,  as  my  betters  have 

done? 

"  Take   notice  :    this   building   re- 
mains on  view, 

Its  suites  of  reception  every  one, 
Its  private  apartment  and  bedroom 
too ; 


'•'  For  a  ticket,  apply  to  the  Publish- 

er." 
No  :  thanking  the  public,  I  must 

decline. 
A  peep  through  my  window,  if  folks 

prefer  ; 

But,  please  you,  no  foot  over  thresh- 
old of  mine  ! 


I  have  mixed  with  a  crowd  and  heard 

free  talk 
In  a  foreign  land  where  an  earth- 

quake chanced 
And  a  house  stood  gaping,  naught  to 

balk 

Man's  eye  wherever  he  gazed  or 
glanced. 


The  whole  of   the   frontage  shaven 

sheer, 

The  inside  gaped  :  exposed  to  day, 
Right  and  wrong  and  common  and 

queer, 

Bare,  as  the  palm  of  your  hand,  it 
lay. 


The  owner?  Oh,  he  had  been  crushed, 

no  doubt  ! 
"  Odd  tables  and  chairs  for  a  man 

of  wealth  ! 
What  a  parcel  of  musty  old  books 

about  ! 

He  smoked,  —  no  wonder  he   lost 
his  health  ! 


I   doubt   if   he   bathed   before   he 


A  brazier?  —  the  pagan,  he  burned 

perfumes  ! 
You  see  it  is  proved,  what  the  neigh- 

bors guessed  : 
His  wife  and  himself  had  separate 

rooms." 


Friends,  the  goodman  of  the  house 

at  least 

Kept  house  to  himself  till  an  earth- 
quake came : 
'Tis  the  fall  of  its  frontage  permits 

you  feast 

On   the   inside    arrangement    you 
praise  or  blame. 


Outside  should  suffice  for  evidence  : 
And  whoso  desires  to  penetrate 

Deeper,   must    dive    by   the    spirit- 
sense  — 
No  optics  like  yours,  at  any  rate  1 

x. 

"  Hoity  toity  !    A  street  to  explore, 
Your  house  the  exception !    '  With 

this  same  key 
Shakspeare  unlocked  his  heart,'  once 

more ! " 

Did  Shakspeare?    If  so,  the  less 
Shakspeare  he ! 


SHOP. 


So,  friend,  your  shop  was  all  your 

house ! 
Its  front,  astonishing  the  street, 

Invited  view  from  man  and  mouse 
To  what  diversity  of  treat 
Behind  its  glass — the  single  sheet ! 

ii. 

What  gimcracks,  genuine  Japanese : 

Gape-jaw  and  goggle-eye,  the  frog ; 

Dragons,    owls,    monkeys,    beetles, 

geese  ; 
Some  crush-nosed   human-hearted 

dog : 
Queer  names,  too,  such  a  catalogue ! 

in. 
I  thought  "And  he  who  owns  the 

wealth 
Which  blocks  the  window's  vasti- 

tude, 

—  Ah,  could  I  peep  at  him  by  stealth 
Behind  his  ware,  pass  shop,  intrude 
On  house  itself,  what  scenes  wert 
viewed  1 


280 


SHOP. 


"  If  wide  and  showy  thus  the  shop, 
What  must  the  habitation  prove  ? 

The  true  house  with  no  name  a-top  — 
The  mansion,  distant  one  remove, 
Once  get  him  off  his  traffic-groove  ! 


"  Pictures  he  likes,  or  books  perhaps  ; 
And  as  for  buying  most  and  best, 

Commend  me  to  these  city  chaps  ! 
Or  else  he's  social,  takes  his  rest 
On  Sundays,  with  a  Lord  for  guest. 


"  Some  suburb-palace,  parked  about 
And  gated  grandly,  built  last  year  : 

The  four-mile  walk  to  keep  off  gout ; 
Or  big  seat  sold  by  bankrupt  peer  : 
But  then  he  takes  the  rail,  that's 
clear. 


"  Or,  stop  !    I  wager,  taste  selects 
Some   out  o'   the  way,   some  all- 
unknown 

Retreat :  the  neighborhood  suspects 
Little  that  he  who  rambles  lone 
Makes  Rothschild  tremble  on  his 
throne  !  " 


Nowise  !    Nor  Mayfair  residence 
Fit  to  receive  and  entertain, — 

Nor  Hampstead  villa's  kind  defence 
From  noise  and  crowd,  from  dust 

and  drain,  — 
Nor  country-box  was  soul's  domain  ! 


Nowise  !    At  back  of  all  that  spread 

Of  merchandise,  woe's  me,  I  find 
A  hole  i'  the  wall  where,  heels  by 

head, 

The  owner  couched,  his  ware  be- 
hind, 
—  In  cupboard  suited  to  his  mind. 


For,  why  ?    He  saw  no  use  of  life 
But,  while  he  drove  a  roaring  trade, 

To  chuckle  "  Customers  are  rife  !  " 
To  chafe  "  So  much  hard  cash  out- 
laid 
Set  zero  in  my  profits  made  ! 


"This    novelty    costs    pains,    but  — 

takes  ? 
Cumbers    my    counter !    Stock   no 

more ! 

This  article,  no  such  great  shakes, 
Fizzes  like  wild  fire  ?    Underscore 
The  cheap  thing  —  thousands  to  the 
fore  ! " 


'Twas  lodging  best  to  live  most  nigh 
(Cramp,  coffinlike  as  crib  might  be} 

Receipt  of  Custom  ;  ear  and  eye 
Wanted  no  outworld  :  "  Hear  and 

see 
The  bustle  in  the  shop  !  "  quoth  he. 


My  fancy  of  a  merchant-prince 
Was  different.    Through  his  wares 

we  groped 

Our  darkling  way  to  —  not  to  mince 
The  matter  —  no  black  den  where 

moped 
The  master  if  we  interloped  I 


Shop    was    shop    only :    household- 
stuff? 
What  did  he  want  with  comforts 

there  ? 
"  Walls,  ceiling,  floor,  stay  blank  and 

rough, 

So  goods  on  sale  show  rich  and  rare  ! 
'  Sell  and   send   home,'    be   shop's 
affair ! " 

xv. 

What  might  he  deal  in  ?    Gems,  sup- 
pose ! 
Since  somehow  business  must  be 

done 

At  cost  of  trouble,  —  see,  he  throws 
You  choice  of  jewels,  every  one 
Good,  better,  best,  star,  moon,  and 
sun  ! 

XVI. 

Which   lies    within   your  power    of 

purse  ? 
This  ruby  that  would  tip  aright 

Solomon's  sceptre  ?    Oh,  your  nurse 
Wants  simply  coral,  the  delight 
Of  teething  baby,  —  stuff  to  bite  ! 


A  Tale.  — Page  28 1. 


A   TALE. 


281 


XVII. 

Hovve'er  your  choice  fell,  straight  you 

took 
Your  purchase,  prompt  your  money 

rang 

On  counter,  —  scarce  the  inan  forsook 
His  study  of   the    "  Times,"   just 

swang 

Till-ward  his  hand  that  stopped  the 
clang,  — 

xvin. 

Then  off  made  buyer  with  a  prize, 
Then  seller   to   his   "Times"    re- 
turned, 

And  so  did  day  wear,  wear,  till  eyes 
Brightened    apace,    for    rest   was 

earned  : 

He  locked  door   long   ere   candle 
burned. 


And   whither   went   he?    Ask  him- 
self, 
Not  me  !    To  change  of   scene,  I 

think. 
Once  sold  the  ware  and  pursed  the 

pelf, 
Chaffer   was   scarce  his  meat    and 

drink, 
Nor  all  his  music  —  money-chink. 

xx. 

Because  a  man  has  shop  to  mind 
In  time  and  place,  since  flesh  must 

live, 

Needs  spirit  lack  all  life  behind, 
All  stray  thoughts,  fancies  fugitive, 
All  loves   except  what  trade   can 
give? 


I  want  to  know  a  butcher  paints, 
A  baker  rhymes  for  his  pursuit, 

C  indlestick-maker  much  acquaints 
His  soul  with  song,  or,  haply  mute, 
Blows  out  his  brains  upon  the  flute  ! 

XXII. 

But  —  shop  each  day  and  all  day  long ! 
Friend,  your  good  angel  slept,  your 

star 

Suffered  eclipse,  fate  did  you  wrong ! 
From  where  these  sorts  of  treas- 
ures are, 

There  should  our  hearts  be  —  Christ, 
how  far ! 


A   TALE. 


WHAT  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me 

Once  upon  a  time 
—  Said  you  found  it  somewhere  (scold 

me !) 

Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme, 
Greek  or  Latin  ?    Greek,  you  said, 
Wfiile   your    shoulder    propped    my 
head. 

n. 
Anyhow  there's  no  forgetting 

This  much  if  no  more, 
That  a  poet  (pray,  no  petting !) 

Yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore, 
Went  where  suchlike  used  to  go, 
Singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 


Well,  he  had  to  sing,  nor  merely 
Sing  but  play  the  lyre  ; 

Playing  was  important  clearly 
Quite  as  singing  :  I  desire, 

Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind 

For  a  purpose  that's  behind. 


There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention 

Held  the  judges  round, 
—  Judges  able,  I  should  mention, 

To  detect  the  slightest  sound 
Sung  or  played  amiss  :  such  ears 
Had  old  judges,  it  appears  ! 


None  the  less  he  sang  out  boldly, 

Played  in  time  ana  tune, 
Till  the  judges,  weighing  coldly 

Each  note's  worth,  seemed,  late  or 

soon, 

Sure  to  smile  "  In  vain  one  tries 
Picking  faults  out :  take  the  prize  !  " 


When,  a  mischief  !    Were  they  seven 

Strings  the  lyre  possessed  ? 
Oh,  and  afterwards  eleven, 
Thank  you  !    Well,  sir,  —  who  had 

guessed 

Such  ill  luck  in  store  ?  —  it  happed 
One    of  those    same    seven    strings 
snapped. 


]T     282 


A    TALE. 


All  was  lost,  then  !    No  !  a  cricket 
(What  "  cicada  "  ?    Pooh  !) 

—  Some  mad  thing  that  left  its  thicket 
For  mere  love  of  music  —  flew 

With  its  little  heart  on  fire, 

Lighted  on  the  crippled  lyre. 


So  that  when  (Ah  joy !)  our  singer 

For  his  truant  string 
Feels  with  disconcerted  finger, 

What  does  cricket  else  but  fling 
Fiery  heart  forth,  sound  the  note 
Wanted  by  the  throbbing  throat  V 

IX. 

Ay  and,  ever  to  the  ending, 

Cricket  chirps  at  need, 
Executes  the  hand's  intending, 

Promptly,  perfectly,  —  indeed 
Saves  the  singer  from  defeat 
With  her  chirrup  low  and  sweet. 


Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges 

Cry  with  one  assent 
"  Take  the  prize  —  a  prize  who  grudges 

Such  a  voice  and  instrument  ? 
Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp, 
So  it  shrilled  us  forth  F  sharp  !  " 


Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature. 

Once  its  service  done  ? 
That's  no  such  uncommon  feature 

In  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  power  too  spent 
For  aiding  soul-development. 


No !    This  other,  on  returning 
Homeward,  prize  in  hand, 

Satisfied  his  bosom's  yearning  : 
(Sir,  I  hope  you  understand  !) 

—  Said  "  Some  record  there  must  be 

Of  this  cricket's  help  to  me !  " 


So,  he  made  himself  a  statue 
Marble  stood,  life-size  ; 


Dn  the  lyre,  he  pointed  at  you, 

Perched  his  partner  in  the  prize  ; 
Never  more  apart  you  found 
Her,    he    throned,    from    him,    she 
crowned. 


That's  the  tale  :  its  application  ? 

Somebody  I  know 
Hopes  one  day  for  reputation 

Through  his  poetry  that's  —  Oh, 
All  so  learned  and  so  wise, 
And  deserving  of  a  prize  1 


If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket, 

When  his  statue's  built, 
Tell  the  gazer  "  'Twas  a  cricket 

Helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt 
Sweet     and     low,     when     strength 

usurped 

Softness'    place     i'    the    scale,    she 
chirped  ? 


"  For  as  victory  was  nighest, 
While  I  sang  and  played,  — 

With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest, 
Right  alike,  —  one  string  that  made 

'  Love  '  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain, 

Never  to  be  heard  again,  — 


XVII. 

"  Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered, 

Perched  upon  the  place 
Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered 

'  Love,  Love,  Love,'  whene'er  the 

bass 

Asked  the  treble  to  atone 
For  its  somewhat  sombre  drone." 


XVIll. 

But  you  don't  know  music  !    Where- 
fore 

Keep  on  casting  pearls 
To  a  —  poet  V    All  I  care  for 

Is  —  to  tell  him  that  a  girl's 
"  Love  "  comes  aptly  in  when  gruff 
Grows  his  singing.    (There,  enough  !) 


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